Pish!" he laughed
again, as, turning, he unhooked his lute from where it hung upon the
wall. "The by-blow of some condottiero, who blends with his father's
bullying arrogance the peasant soul of his careless mother. And I fear
that such a one as that shall touch the heart of my peerless Valentina?
Why, it is a thought that does her but poor honour."
And dismissing Francesco from his mind, he sought the strings with his
fingers, and thrummed an accompaniment as he returned to the window, his
voice, wondrous sweet and tender, breaking into a gentle love-song.
CHAPTER XV
THE MERCY OF FRANCESCO
Monna Valentina and her ladies dined at noon in a small chamber opening
from the great hall, and thither were bidden Francesco and Gonzaga. The
company was waited upon by the two pages, whilst Fra Domenico, with a
snow-white apron girt about his portentous waist, brought up the steaming
viands from the kitchen where he had prepared them; for, like a true
conventual, he was something of a master in the confection--and a very
glutton in the consumption--of delectable comestibles. The kitchen was
to him as the shrine of some minor cult, and if his breviary and beads
commanded from him the half of the ecstatic fervour of his devotions to
pot and pan, to cauldron and to spit, then was canonisation indeed
assured him.
He set before them that day a dinner than which a better no prince
commanded, unless it were the Pope. There were ortolans, shot in the
valley, done with truffles, that made the epicurean Gonzaga roll his
eyes, translated through the medium of his palate into a very paradise of
sensual delight.
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