Later the Pope gave a dinner-party in the pontifical hall and, when the company had feasted, the dancing began.
The bride sat beside her husband, who glowered at the dancers; he disliked such entertainments and was longing for this one to end. Not so Lucrezia; she longed for her husband to take her hand and lead her in the dance.
She glanced sideways at him. He seemed very old, she thought, very stern. “Do you not like to dance?” she asked him.
“I do not like to dance,” he answered.
“But does not the music inspire you to do so?”
“Nothing inspires me to do so.”
Her feet were tapping, and her father was watching her; his face was a little flushed with so much feasting and merry-making, and she knew that he understood how she was feeling. She saw him glance at her brother Giovanni, who had interpreted the glance. In a moment he was beside her.
“Brother,” he said, “since you do not partner my sister in the dance, I will do so.”
Lucrezia looked at her husband, thinking that perhaps now she would have to ask his permission; she was a little apprehensive, knowing that neither of her brothers would allow any to stand in the way of what they wanted to do.
She need not have worried. Giovanni Sforza was quite indifferent as to whether his wife danced or stayed at his side.
“Come,” said the Duke of Gandia. “A bride should dance at her wedding.”
So he led her into the very center of the dancers and holding her hand, he said: “Oh, my sister, you are the fairest lady of the ball, which is as it should be.”
“I verily believe, dear brother,” she said, “that you are the handsomest of the men.”
The Duke bowed his head and his eyes gleamed at her, amused and passionate as they had been in the nursery days.
“Cesare would be beside himself with envy if he saw us dance together.”
“Giovanni,” she said quickly, “you should not provoke him.”
“ ’Tis one of the joys of my life,” he murmured, “provoking Cesare.”
“Why so, Giovanni?”
“Someone must provoke him, and everyone else, except our father, would seem to be afraid to.”
“Giovanni, you are not afraid of anything.”
“Not I,” said Giovanni. “I would not be afraid of your bridegroom if he, being jealous to see his bride look so lovingly at me, should challenge me to a duel.”
“He will make no such challenge. I fancy he is glad to be rid of me.”
“By the saints, then perhaps I should run him through for his neglect of my lovely sister. Oh, Lucrezia, how happy I am to be with you once more! Have you forgotten the days in our mother’s house … the quarrels, the dances? Ah, those Spanish dances. Do you remember them?”
“I do, Giovanni.”
“And do you not think them more inspiring, more full of meaning than these of Italy?”
“Yes, Giovanni.”
“Then we will dance them, you and I.…”
“Giovanni, dare we?”
“We Borgias dare anything, sister.” He drew her to him and there was light in his eyes which reminded her of Cesare’s. “Do not forget,” he went on, “that though you have married a Sforza, you are a Borgia … always a Borgia.”
“No,” she answered, and she was breathless with sudden excitement. “I shall never forget it.”
One by one the other dancers fell away from them, so that after a while there was none dancing but the Duke of Gandia and his sister. The dances were those of Spain—throbbing with passion, the sort of dances which a bride and bridegroom might have performed together, portraying love, desire, fulfillment.
Lucrezia’s long hair escaped from its net in the abandonment of the dance; and there were many who whispered: “How strange that the sister and brother should dance thus while the bridegroom looks on!”
The Pope watched with benign affection. These were his best-loved children, and it did not seem strange to him to see them dance thus: Lucrezia expectant, on the brink of womanhood, and Giovanni with the light of a demon in his eyes, and a malicious glance over his shoulder for the dull bridegroom—and for another perhaps, another who wished he was present to watch this almost ritual dance with their sister.
Giovanni Sforza yawned in his indifference. Yet he was less indifferent than he seemed. Not that he had any deep feelings for the golden-haired child who was his wife; but it had occurred to him that the Borgias were a strange family, alien to Rome; their Spanish blood made them that; and he felt faintly uneasy sitting there, and although he was in a semistupor through too much food and wine, too much heat, too many celebrations, he was conscious of a warning voice within him: “Beware of these Borgias. They are a strange, unnatural people. One must be prepared for them to do anything … however startling, however strange. Beware.… Beware of the Borgias!”
LUCREZIA MARRIED
Those weeks which followed her wedding were full of pleasure for Lucrezia. She saw little of her husband, and her brothers were constantly with her. The old rivalry was revived and, although Lucrezia was aware that there was now an even more dangerous element in this than there had been in nursery days, she could not help being stimulated by it.
It was an unusual situation; the bride and bridegroom indifferent to each other, while the bride’s brothers strutted before her, as though they were trying to woo her, each trying to persuade her that he was a better man than the other.
The brothers invaded Lucrezia’s apartments day and night; each planned spectacles in which he played the leading part and Lucrezia that of honored guest.
Adriana protested, but Giovanni ignored her, and Cesare’s eyes blazed with anger. “The insolence of the woman is beyond endurance!” he cried, and there was a threat in his words.
Giulia remonstrated with Lucrezia.
“This is a strange mode of behavior,” she declared. “Your brothers attend you as though you were something more than a sister.”
“You do not understand,” Lucrezia explained. “We were together in the nursery.”
“Brothers and sisters often are.”
“Our childhood was different. We sensed the mystery which surrounded us. We lived in our mother’s house, but we did not then know who our father was. We loved each other … we were necessary to each other, and then we were parted for so long. That is why we love more than most families.”
“I would rather see you take a lover.”
Lucrezia smiled gently; she was too good-hearted to tell Giulia that she understood the reason for her concern; the Pope still doted on her and she remained his favorite mistress, but all lovers of members of the Borgia family must be jealous of that family’s feelings for its own members. Giulia was thinking that, now Cesare and Giovanni were in Rome, the love their father bore them and his daughter far exceeded that which he had for herself, and she was frankly jealous.
Lucrezia was fond of Giulia; she understood her feelings; but the bond between herself and her brothers could not be broken by anyone.
Meanwhile the weeks passed. She would go to the Campo di Fiore to watch Giovanni joust; then Cesare staged a bull-fight in that same spot, himself acting as the brave matador. He arranged that there were crowds to watch, and in the place of honor, where she might miss nothing, was Lucrezia, to tremble when she saw him face death, to exult when she saw him triumph.