The Shame of Motley | Page 3

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This etext was produced by John Stuart Middleton

The Shame of Motley Being the Memoir of Certain Transactions in the Life of Lazzaro Biancomonte, of Biancomonte, sometime Fool of the Court of Pesaro.
by Rafael Sabatini

CONTENTS


PART I
FLOWER OF THE QUINCE

CHAPTER
I.
THE CARDINAL OF VALENCIA
II. THE LIVERIES OF SANTAFIOR
III. MADONNA PAOLA
IV. THE COZENING OF RAMIRO
V. MADONNA'S INGRATITUDE
VI. FOOL'S LUCK
VII. THE SUMMONS FROM ROME
VIII. "MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN"
IX. THE FOOL-AT-ARMS
X. THE FALL OF PESARO


PART II
THE OGRE OF CESENA
XI. MADONNA'S SUMMONS
XII. THE GOVERNOR OF CESENA
XIII. POISON
XIV. REQUIESCAT!
XV. AN ILL ENCOUNTER
XVI. IN THE CITADEL OF CESENA
XVII. THE SENESCHAL
XVIII. THE LETTER
XIX. DOOMED
XX. THE SUNSET
XXI. AVE CAESAR!


PART I
FLOWER OF THE QUINCE

CHAPTER I
THE CARDINAL OF VALENCIA
For three days I had been cooling my heels about the Vatican, vexed by suspense. It fretted me that I should have been so lightly dealt with after I had discharged the mission that had brought me all the way from Pesaro, and I wondered how long it might be ere his Most Illustrious Excellency the Cardinal of Valencia might see fit to offer me the honourable employment with which Madonna Lucrezia had promised me that he would reward the service I had rendered the House of Borgia by my journey.
Three days were sped, yet nought had happened to signify that things would shape the course by me so ardently desired; that the means would be afforded me of mending my miserable ways, and repairing the wreck my life had suffered on the shoals of Fate. True, I had been housed and fed, and the comforts of indolence had been mine; but, for the rest, I was still clothed in the livery of folly which I had worn on my arrival, and, wherever I might roam, there followed ever at my heels a crowd of underlings, seeking to have their tedium lightened by jests and capers, and voting me--when their hopes proved barren--the sorriest Fool that had ever worn the motley.
On that third day I speak of, my patience tried to its last strand, I had beaten a lacquey with my hands, and fled from the cursed gibes his fellows aimed at me, out into the misty gardens and the chill January air, whose sting I could, perhaps, the better disregard by virtue of the heat of indignation that consumed me. Was it ever to be so with me? Could nothing lift