Milanese territory. Lodovico, of that great principality, would have
been mortally affronted if he believed Bentivoglio to have been
considered first. Therefore the visit to Bologna was to be a dead
secret, performed by the principals almost unattended. Meantime Grifone
(who loved mystification) prepared litters with a dummy Duke and Duchess
to go under escort to Borgo San Donnino. He and his wagging escort duly
entered that city: excuses to the Podesta secured him a covered passage
to the palace. Once there, unfortunately, the populace clamoured for a
view, insisted upon their Graces' appearance. Grifone had to set his
dolls at a window. There they stared, embraced, while three Ciceronian
orations were delivered from the piazza, and all the merchant-guilds
marched round it with banners and torches. Next morning he got them off
safely by some stroke of good luck; but his joke got wind in time, came
round to Cesare Borgia's ears, and at last was repeated against Nona.
For no other reason could this absurd incident claim your ears.

At Bologna, also, all had gone well with the real adventurers--up to a
certain point Bentivoglio the tyrant (whose name is surely the grimmest
of his pleasantries) having seen the lovely Molly, was disposed to
forgive her that disastrous veracity which (you remember) had prevented
him before. He was so favourably impressed that Amilcare (who never
missed a chance) left him alone with her for two hours in the garden
after supper. At the end of that time Molly came to him, stumbling over
her dress in her haste, flushed and in tears. They must leave Bologna at
once, she declared; she would die else, or never look her husband in the
face. The man had insulted her, was horrible, most wicked. Amilcare, her
dear lord, must go and avenge her, etc., etc.

Here was a pother. What could be done? Grifone, of course, had he been
there, would have drawn his master's sword for him, dragged him out of
the room, and sent him back in half an hour's time with a bloody
testimony of nothing on the blade. Molly would have been pacified,
Bentivoglio snug abed, the sword none the worse for a little pig's
blood. But Grifone was at Borgo jigging his dolls and listening to
Cicero, and Amilcare lost his head. He pooh-poohed the whole affair;
Molly grew pale, stopped crying. Amilcare began to feel himself--come,
come, she was reasonable after all. He condescended to explain the fine
uses of Italian statecraft, the wife'