Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici Read Online Free Page A

name?”
    â€œI am Duchessina. And do
you
have a name,
signore?
”
    â€œMichelangelo Buonarroti, at your service,” he said with a formal bow. “I am a great artist—the greatest in the world,” he added. “I have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. I have sculpted the
Pietà
in St. Peter’s Basilica. And perhaps
la duchessina
has seen the sculpture of David that stands in the Piazza dei Signoria?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œNo, I suppose not. A statue of a nude male is not suitable viewing for a little mouse.” He smiled mirthlessly, exposing darkened teeth. I wondered if he was half mad, but he no longer scared me—I sensed that he meant me no harm. After a while the strange artist began muttering to himself, seeming to have forgotten that I was there. Eventually he turned and left, still muttering, “Must find that devil Passerini,” and I was alone again with my beloved pictures of the magi.

    D AY AFTER DAY I watched glumly as my two older cousins made their presence felt—one loudly and boorishly the other gaily and pleasantly—around the palazzo. They were often in the company of Cardinal Passerini or one of their other tutors. Sometimes I saw them dressed to go out in their bright-colored clothes, stockings trimmed with silver lace, Alessandro in a pink cape, Ippolito in his blue satin tunic. They wore jaunty feathers in their velvet caps and golden chains around their necks and carried scented gloves, and they were off to roam the streets of Florence, out of sight of the cardinal. Sometimes I heard them returning toward dawn, singing loudly, laughing at nothing.
    Being a girl and so much younger, I was naturally excluded from their activities. When the two were together, they shunned me. This was better than having Alessandro notice me. Michelangelo was right, I thought: better to be a little mouse, quiet in my corner, seeing everything without being seen.
    But sometimes I was unlucky. Surly Alessandro pounced, delighted when he managed to make me shriek. I trained myself not to give him the pleasure of reacting. I
will not jump when he startles me,
I vowed.
I will not weep when he says something cruel.
And I promised myself that I would never run to Cardinal Passerini or my aunt or Betta, carrying tales about what dreadful thing Alessandro had said or done to me. It took immense self-will not to cry, but I gradually gained mastery over my feelings.
    Then one day he sneaked up behind me and shouted, “Frog!”
    I spun around and glared at him. “Why do you call me ‘frog’?” I asked, more calmly than I felt.
    â€œBecause you look just like one. Those popping eyes of yours—they’re like a frog’s,” he said with intolerable smugness. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror? If you have, then you know what an ugly little thing you are.” Alessandro smirked and strolled off, leaving me standing there, too stunned and hurt to reply, tears pricking my eyes in spite of my vow.
    Is it true? Am I ugly?
    I was about six years old then, and until that time I had never considered whether I was or was not beautiful. No one had spoken of it. There were no little girls in the palazzo with whom to compare myself. But there were a great many serving girls and kitchen helpers and chambermaids, and I had noticed that those with small waists, generous bosoms, delicate skin, abundant hair, and winsome smiles were the ones who seemed to have the easiest time of it, to beguile the men in order to get their way.
    Michelangelo, the artist—the genius—had called me “little mouse,” and I hadn’t minded. But on that day, with that one cruel remark, Alessandro planted a seed in my heart. I understood that I was not beautiful, as a woman should be, and that I would have to find clever ways to get what I wanted.

    O N A SPRING DAY just before my seventh birthday Cardinal Passerini left Palazzo Medici