V

Next day the storm was over. The sun sparkled on the frozen windows; the snowy fields and hills, soft as down, shone dazzlingly white under the azure sky. His companion was no longer in the room when Leonardo awoke. He dressed and descended to the kitchen where, to the joy of the cook, a joint was roasting on the automatic spit.

He ordered his mule and sat down to breakfast. Beside him was Messer Niccolò talking excitedly to a couple of newcomers. One of these was a faultlessly fashionable youth with an undistinguished face, a certain Messer Lucio, related to Francesco Vettori. This Vettori was a man of note in Florence, intimately connected with Piero Soderini the Gonfaloniere, and very favourably disposed to Machiavelli. He had sent Lucio with letters to Messer Niccolò from his friends.

'Be not disquieted about the money,' Lucio was saying; 'my uncle assures me that last Thursday the Signori promised——'

'But, my dear sir,' interrupted Machiavelli, 'can two servants and three horses be fed with promises? At Imola I received sixty ducats and paid debts of seventy. If it were not for the compassion of the benevolent, the secretary of the Florentine Republic would starve. It is vain for the Signori to talk of the honour of their town if they force the man whom they send to a strange court to beg for his sheer necessities.'

Messer Niccolò knew these complaints were useless, but it solaced him to make them. The kitchen being nearly empty, he spoke without reserve.

'Here is our fellow-citizen, Messer Leonardo da Vinci—the Gonfaloniere must know him,' resumed Machiavelli, indicating the painter, to whom Lucio bowed courteously. 'Messer Leonardo was witness only last night of the humiliations to which I am daily subjected. I demand—hear you?—I do not ask, but I demand leave to resign my office,' he concluded, his anger still waxing, and addressing the young Florentine as if he saw in him the whole Magnificent Signoria. 'I am a poor man, sir, and my affairs go from bad to worse, and my health likewise. If matters continue as they are I shall return home in my coffin. Moreover I have done all which is possible to do, with the poor powers accorded me. To drag out the negotiation, to go around and about, one step forward and two steps back, "I will" and "I won't"—that is not work for me! The duke is too clever for such childishness! Well, I have written to your uncle——'

'My uncle,' interrupted Lucio, 'will doubtless do all he can for you, Messer Niccolò; but the Magnificent Ten, to tell truth, consider your reports so essential to the weal of the republic that they will not permit you to retire. "Who is there," they say, "able to take his place? He is a man of gold; he is the ear and the eye of our commonwealth!" I swear to you, Messere, that your letters have so great a success in Florence that you could not desire a greater. All are bewitched by the incomparable felicity of your style. My uncle informed me that at a late meeting in the council chamber, upon the reading of one of your merry letters, the Signori burst themselves with laughter——'

'Oh, that's it, is it?' exclaimed Machiavelli, his face contorted with rage. 'Ah, now I understand! My letters are amusing to the Magnificent Signori; they burst themselves with laughter, and they admire my diction. Thank God, Niccolò Machiavelli is capable of something! Yet I live here like a dog, I freeze and go hungry, I shake with fever, and am insulted by landlords, all for the good of the republic. The devil take the republic, and the Gonfaloniere too, snivelling old woman! May you all be buried unshriven and uncoffined!' And he burst into the vulgar vituperation of the market-place, helplessly furious at the thought of these chiefs of the people, so utterly despicable, and yet his masters. To divert his thoughts Lucio handed him a letter from his young wife, Marietta; a few lines written in a round childish hand on coarse grey paper.

'Carissimo Niccolò mio,' so she wrote, 'I am told that in those parts, where you are now, fevers and other sicknesses abound. You may fancy my care for you. My thoughts give me no peace day nor night. The boy, thank God, is well. He grows apace, and is like you. His little face is white as the snowdrift, but his head, with its thick black curls, is like yours. He seems beautiful to me because he is like you. He is lively and merry as though he were a year old. Believe me, directly he was born he opened his eyes and he shouted with a voice which filled the house. I pray you, forget us not. I entreat, return to us at the earliest moment, for to wait longer passeth my endurance. And, meanwhile, may the Lord protect you, and the blessed Virgin! I send you two shirts and two handkerchiefs and a towel. Your,

Marietta in Florence.

Leonardo observed that Machiavelli reading this letter seemed another man. His face lit up with a tender smile not to be expected on his harsh features. The smile, however, quickly disappeared. He shrugged his shoulders, crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pouch, then said savagely—

'Who told her I was ill?'

'Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio, 'every day Monna Marietta has been to the members of the council asking for you, and inquiring where you are and how you fare.'

'I know! I know! 'Twas like to be so. Affairs of state should be reserved for celibates. One of the two—politics or a wife—not both.' Then he turned abruptly and said, 'And you yourself, good youth; you are perhaps thinking of wedding?'

'Not at present, Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio.

'Never commit that folly; unless you have the shoulders of Atlas. Eh! Messer Leonardo?'

The painter understood that Messer Niccolò loved Marietta passionately, but was ashamed to admit the fact.

The inn was now emptying fast; Leonardo prepared for his start and invited Machiavelli to ride with him. But Messer Niccolò shook his head, saying he must wait for money from Florence before he could pay his bill. He spoke sadly, his assumed levity having suddenly collapsed. He looked ill and wretched. Inaction, long stay in one place was misery to him. Not without cause had the Council of Ten complained of his frequent, causeless, and unexpected removals, which were great embarrassment to their affairs.

Leonardo took him aside and offered to lend the requisite money. Machiavelli declined.

'You hurt me, my friend,' said the painter; 'remember this rare conjunction of the stars! You would confer a benefit upon me.'

There was so much kindness in Leonardo's voice that Messer Niccolò had not the courage to persist in his refusal. He took twenty ducats which he promised to return on receipt of his money from Florence; then immediately paid his score, with the lavishness of a great noble.