At once he caused an intimation to be made to the Princess that he wished to see her about a matter which concerned them both intimately, and required her to meet him out at the Villa di Cafaggiuolo.  It was the 20th of July, in the year 1576, that Eleanora received her husband’s commands—­just ten days after the brutal murder of her lover—­during the course of which she gave way to uncontrolled grief.  This summons she knew presaged dire consequences to herself, and she had no friend to seek for consolation and advice.  The Grand Duke was out of the question, and Duchess Isabella d’Orsini, who had proved herself no friend of good omen, was in a plight very much like her own!

No, she had to fight the battle of her life and death alone, this girl of twenty-three.  She replied that she was quite prepared to meet Piero, but she asked for a short delay.  She spent it in weeping by the cradle of her little son, Cosimo, and arranging her worldly affairs—­she was quite prepared for the worst.

Leaving Florence in the middle of a hot summer’s day, the course to Cafaggiuolo was trying to her horses—­one indeed fell and died on the way—­an evil omen for poor Eleanora!  As night was coming on she reached the villa, more dead than alive with fright, and accompanied only by two faithful ladies of her household.  To their surprise the house appeared to be deserted:  there were no lights in the windows, and no one seemed to be about.

The great doors were wide open, and with much trepidation the Princess mounted the marble steps.  The door of every room also was open and the arras pulled aside, but nowhere could she see or hear her husband.  Very uncanny everything felt, the silence was almost suffocating, and the darkness threw weird shadows athwart her and her companions.

At the entrance of the room, which she deemed to be Piero’s—­they had never cohabited there, or indeed anywhere, she knew not where he slept—­Eleanora paused, affrighted.  She had heard a rustle! she had seen something! it was a hand held beyond the arras!—­and there was a poignard within its grasp!

E’er she could cry out or take a step backwards, a sudden, savage blow struck her breast—­she fell!—­stabbed to death!  The hand was the hand of Piero de’ Medici!

Eleanora was dead!  Her life’s blood crimsoned, in a gory stream, the marble lintel, and Piero gazed at the victim of his desertion, lust, and hate—­he was mad!

Kneeling upon his knees in the hellish darkness, he tried to stanch that ruddy stream.  Then he laved his hands in her hot blood and conveyed some to his raging lips!  Reason presently asserted herself; and, throwing himself prostrate along the floor, he banged his head, thereupon calling out in a frenzy of remorse for mercy for his deed!

“God of Heaven,” he pleaded, “judge between my wife and me—­I vow that I will do penance for my deed, and never wed again.”