The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whom I have thus cavalierly treated.
The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.
“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”
“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”
The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”
Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactly like those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”
“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”
“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”
Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.
Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himself into his father’s arms.