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“You are Leonardo da Vinci,” said the other stoutly, “the painter of these pictures. I shall carry them all away, and you will have to follow,” laughed the monarch. “I will not leave one.” He rummaged gayly in the unfinished debris, bringing out with each turn some new theme of delight.

The painter stood by, waiting, alert, a trifle uneasy, it might seem. “And now, sire, shall we see the view from the little western turret?”

“One moment. Ah, what have we here?” He turned the canvas to the light. The figure against the quaint landscape looked out with level, smiling glance. He fell upon his knees before it. “Ah, marvellous, marvellous!” he murmured in naive delight. He remained long before it, absorbed, forgetful. At last he rose. He lifted the picture and placed it on an easel. “Is she yet alive?” he demanded, turning to the painter.

“She lives in Florence, sire.”

“And her name?”

“Signora Lisa della Gioconda.”

“Her husband? It matters not.”

“Dead these ten years.”

“And children?”

“A boy. Born shortly after the husband’s death,” he added, after a slight pause. “Shall we proceed to the turret? The light changes fast at sunset.”

“Presently, presently. The portrait must be mine. The original–We shall see–we shall see.”

“Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” He stared at it anew. “Impossible. It is perfect.”

“There was to be a child.”

“Ah!” The monarch gazed at it intently for many minutes. The portrait returned the royal look in kind. He broke into a light laugh. “You did well to omit the child,” he said. “Come, we will see the famous sunset now.” He turned to the regal figure on the easel. “Adieu, Mona Lisa. I come for you again.” He kissed his fingers with airy grace. He fluttered out. The mocking, sidelong glance followed him.

III

The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture–a woman seated in a rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.

The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow. It waited.

“Has our good physician gone, Francesco?” asked the painter.

Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire.

“What does he say of us to-day?”

The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. “He always croaks. He is never hopeful.” He approached the couch and knelt by it, his face in the shadow still.

The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. “Why grieve? An exile has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco.”

The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull silvery glimmer over it.

“Ah, that is good,” murmured the old man. “Your hand is like a woman’s. I have not known many women,” he said, after a pause…. “But I have not been lonely. Friends are faithful”–he pressed the youth’s warm hand. “His Majesty?”–the voice ended with a question.

“No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how bright it grows.”

The painter turned his head. He looked long. “Tell us what the wise physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?”

“Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes—-“

“Ah, yes.” He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. “There will be few bequests. My pictures–they are mine no longer. Should a painter barter the sons and daughters of his soul?… Gold cannot buy…. They are mine…. Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles. He must see something he has done, something perfect….” He lay looking long at the portrait. “And yet it is not finished…. There was to be the child.” He smiled dreamily. “Poor Bambino.” His eyes rested again on the portrait…. He smiled back upon it. “Yes, you will live,” he said softly. “Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He gave you back to me. You will be his–his and his children’s. I have no child—-At least…. Ah, well–Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona will pass. The Dominican picture … all but gone. The hand of time has rested on my work. Crumbling–fading–nothing finished. I planned so much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished. My manuscripts–do with them what you will. I could not even write like other men–this poor left hand.” He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they fluttered from his fingers. “A man is poor who has few wants. Then I have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty name.”

Silence fell between them.

“There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her–this ring–” He slipped it from his finger–a heavy stone, deep green, with translucent lights. “It was my father’s crest. He gave it to my mother–not his wife–a woman–faithful. She put it on my finger when she died–a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her … she has a son…. Tell her….” The voice fell hushed.

The young man waited, with bowed head. He looked up. He started quickly, and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded the hands across the quiet breast. He passed swiftly from the silent chamber, down to the courtyard, out on the King’s highway, mounted and fleet.

The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gay chanson. His retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi saluted and drew rein. He spoke a word in the monarch’s ear. The two men stood with uncovered heads. They looked toward the western windows. The gay cavalcade halted in the glow of light. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed in the crimson flood. Within the room, above the gleaming coals, a woman of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze upon an old man’s face.