Leonora D'Orco. G. P. R. James

with my story, and must be told.

      CHAPTER II.

      General conversation between the two courts of France and Milan was somewhat difficult; for, to say sooth, there were many there who could not speak the language of their neighbours, or spoke it very imperfectly. But Frenchmen, and Italians likewise, are famous for delivering themselves from such difficulties. They talk with a happy carelessness of whether they are understood or not, and eke out the defect of language with a sign or gesture. But there were some, there present, to whom both tongues were familiar; and while the King of France sat beneath the trees with Lodovico Sforza and his lovely wife, one of the youths who had followed him might be seen at the other side of the little grove, stretched easily on the ground between two young girls who had accompanied the princess, and with one of whom, at least, his acquaintance seemed of early date.

      The young man was tall, well formed, and handsome; and he looked older than he really was, for he had not yet seen more than eighteen summers. The two girls were younger still, neither having reached the age of fifteen years. Both gave promise of exceeding beauty--otherwise perhaps they would have been excluded from the gay train of the princess; but, though womanhood ripens earlier under Italian skies than in colder climates, they were still evidently in girlhood, and, what was more rare, they had apparently preserved all the freshness and innocent frankness of their age.

      One called the young man "Cousin Lorenzo," and teased him gaily with criticisms of his dress and appearance; vowed he had promised to bring back a beard from France, and yet he had not even a moustache; declared that she abominated the hair cut short before and hanging down behind after the French mode, and assumed that the large sleeves of his surcoat must be made to carry provisions in, not only for himself, but for all his company. She was the younger of the two, and probably not yet fourteen years of age; and though there was a world of merriment in her sparkling blue eyes, and a gay, bright smile kept playing lightly round her lips, yet it would have been a hard critic who could, in her, have discovered any of that coquetry from which even her age is not exempt. On the contrary, she seemed to strive to direct her cousin's admiration to her fair companion, who, in her eyes, was the most beautiful and perfect creature in the universe; and, in truth, there was many a one in after days who thought so to his cost.

      Very different in personal appearance was she from her younger companion: tall for her age, and of that light, slender form which, in early youth, often promises the rich, flowing contour at an after period, which Guido loved, and even Raphael and Julio Romano did not undervalue. She was dark in complexion, too--that is to say, her hair was black as a raven's wing; and her full, almond-shaped eyes, with the lashes that shaded them, and the arched eyebrows above were dark as the hair. But yet there was something that softened all. Either it was the flowing of the lines into each other, or the happy blending of the tints, but nothing in the face or form was sharp or too defined. The skin was clear, and soft, and bright--so far dark, indeed, as to harmonize with the hair and eyes; but through the slight olive tint of southern climes shone the clear, warm rose of health; and, over all, youth and dawning womanhood shed their thousand inexpressible graces, like the winged loves which, in one of Albano's pictures, flutter round the Goddess of Beauty. She was gay, too--gay even as her bright-eyed companion at times; but it was with sudden fits and starts; and every now and then would intervene lapses of thought, as if she were questioning with herself of things beyond her knowledge. It is not rare to find that a thoughtful youth ripens into a passionate maturity. Her dress was one common at that day, we find, in the court of Ferrara; but it had not long been the mode in any part of Italy; and to the eyes of the young Lorenzo, who had been nearly two years absent from his native country, it seemed strange and hardly decent. It consisted of a robe somewhat like that of the princess, except that the ground of the cloth of gold, instead of green, was of a pale delicate rose colour. The sleeves, in the young girl's case, fitted tight to the rounded arms, but the front of each, from the shoulder nearly to the wrist, was cut open, showing the chemise of snowy lawn, except where, every two or three inches, a small jewel, in the form of a button, gathered the edges of the cloth of gold together. The robe in front also was thrown back from the neck and bosom, which was only shaded by the profuse curls of jetty hair. Instead of the small hat, with its plume of feathers, worn by the wife of the regent, a veil of rich black lace, fastened at the back of the head with a jewelled pin, thence to the shoulders; and round her waist was a knotted cord of gold, the tassels of which, strangely twisted and contorted, fell almost to her feet.

      Such was the appearance of Leonora d'Orco at the age of fourteen, or very little more. Of that which is beyond appearance I may have occasion to speak hereafter.

      Facts may seem trite, which nevertheless must be said in explanation of the character he depicts by any one who writes the history of another. We lose the key of a cabinet, nearly new, perhaps, and we send to a vender of old iron to see if we cannot find one to fit it. We select one and then another for trial, and find at length a key which seems to conform to the shape of the keyhole. Would any one object to its trial because it is old and rust-worn? Well, it is old; it may have served in a hundred locks before, for aught we know; but it fits, and opens, and shuts this lock, and that is all we have to do with it.

      It has often been said, and was frequently insisted upon by Goethe, that each human being is a different being at each period of his age from that which he was at an anterior period. The very substance of the body, say the physiologists, is entirely changed in every seven years. What of the mind? Do cares, and sorrows, and experience, and joys, and hopes, and fruitions, effect no change in it? God forbid! If we believe the mind immortal, and not subject, like the body, to death and resurrection, still greater must be the changes; for its state must be progressive towards evil or towards good. Expansion certainly comes with knowledge; every day has its lesson, its reproof, its encouragement; and the very development or decay of the mortal frame affects the tenant within--hardens, strengthens, elevates, instructs; or, entenders, enfeebles, depresses, depraves. Suffice it here to say, that perhaps no one ever in life experienced greater changes of thought, feeling, character, than Leonora d'Orco, as the winged moments flew over her head. And yet the indestructible essence was the same; every essential element remained; it was but the combinations that were modified. A few years later, had you asked her if she had ever felt such sensations, or thought such thoughts as she felt and thought now, she would instantly have said "No;" but one moment's lifting of the veil which hides the pictures of the past would have shown her that she had felt, had thought such things; one moment's scrutiny of her own heart would have shown her that, in another form, she felt them, thought them still.

      But let us regard her only in the present. See how her eye sparkles, how her lip wreaths itself in smiles, and how the joyous laugh breaks forth clear, and sweet, and musical, finding expression not only in its own melodious tones, but in every feature--aye, and even in the colour that rises in a gay bashfulness, and spreads suddenly over cheek and brow, as if a ray of morning sunshine had found its way through the green branches and lighted up her face. And then all is still again--still, and quiet, and thoughtful--and her eyes bend down and the long lashes kiss her cheek--and the rose has faded away--and the clear skin is paler than before, till something from one or the other of her gay companions awakens merriment again, and then she changes once more with the sudden change of mountain skies.

      But see! they are talking of more serious matters now.

      "Not enter Milan!" cries Leonora; "not enter beautiful Milan! Signor Lorenzo, how is that? Have you lost all love and pride in your own fair country?"

      "I must not enter Milan," he answered with a sigh; "but if I might, Leonora, I could not."

      "But why--why?" she asked eagerly; "are you one of the exiles? Oh, if that is so, the princess loves me well, and besides, when you come with the King of France, a guest of Count Ludovic, the past must be forgotten in the present, and you be welcomed too. Oh, do not say you will not come."

      She spoke eagerly, and then cast down her eyes, for his met hers with a look too full of admiration to be mistaken.

      "Do not ask him--do not ask him," said sweet Bianca Maria di Rovera; "he is going to my grandfather's villa till the king marches on. That is already settled, Leonora."

      "And