The Shame of Motley: being the memoir of certain transactions in the life of Lazzaro Biancomonte, of Biancomonte, sometime fool of the court of PesaroSabatini, Rafael
History
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
Near the foot of the bier there was a bench, and there I sat me down,
and resting my elbows on my knees I took my dishevelled head between my
frozen hands. My thoughts were all of her whose poor murdered clay was
there encased above me. I reviewed, I think, each scene of my life
where it had touched on hers; I evoked every word she had addressed to
me since first I had met her on the road to Cagli.
And anon my mood changed, and, from cold and frozen that it had been by
grief, it grew ablaze with the fire of anger and the lust to wreak
vengeance upon him that had brought her to this condition. Let Filippo
fear to move without proofs, let him doubt such proofs as I had set
before him and deem them overslender to warrant action. Such scruples
should not serve to restrain me. I was no lukewarm brother. Here in
Pesaro I would remain until her poor body was delivered to the earth,
and then I would set out upon a last emprise. Messer Ramiro del’ Orca
should account to me for this vile deed.
There in the House of Peace I sat gnawing my hands and maturing my
bloody plans whilst the night wore on. Later a still more frenzied mood
obsessed me—a burning desire to look again upon the sweet face of her I
had loved, the sainted visage of Madonna Paola. What was there to deter
me? Who was there to gainsay me?
I stood up and uttered that challenge aloud in my madness. My voice
echoed mournfully up the aisles, and the sound of the echo chilled me,
yet my purpose gathered strength.
I advanced, and after a moment’s pause, with the silver-broidered hem
of the pall in my hands, I suddenly swept off that mantle of black
cloth, setting up such a gust of wind as all but quenched the tapers. I
caught up the bench on which I had been sitting, and, dragging it
forward, I mounted it and stood now with my breast on a level with the
coffin-lid. I laid hands on it and found it unfastened. Without thought
or care of how I went about the thing, I raised it and let it crash
over to the ground. It fell on the stone flags with a noise like that
of thunder, which boomed and reverberated along the gloomy vault above.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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