CHAPTER VIII
Florence, in the great days of the Renaissance, bore many men whom now she delights to honour, and Ugo Manelli was one of these. He helped to build a bridge over the Arno, he had his palace in the Corso frescoed by Masaccio, he framed sumptuary laws, and he wrote sonnets, charming sonnets that are still read by the people who care for such things. The fifth centenary of his birthday, on the twenty-eighth of November, was to be kept with great rejoicings therefore. There were to be fireworks and illuminations of the streets for the people, and a Trecento costume ball at the Palazzo Vecchio for those who had influence to procure tickets and money to pay for them.
Mamie, greatly daring, proclaimed her intention of wearing the “umile ed onesto sanguigno” of Beatrice.
“You will be my Dante, Don Filippo? Momma is going in cloth of gold as Giovanna degli Albizzi.”
The Marchese looked inquiringly at the Prince. “Shall you add to the gaiety of nations, or at least of Florence?”
The young man shrugged his broad shoulders. “I suppose so.” He was well established as cavalier servente now in the Lorenzoni household, and it was understood that Mamie would be a princess some day. The girl was so young that the engagement could scarcely be announced yet.
“I guess we must wait until you are eighteen, Mamie,” her mother said. “Keep him amused and don’t be exacting or he’ll quit. He is still sore from his jilting.”
“I can manage him,” the girl boasted, but she had no real influence over him now. The forbidden fruit had allured him, but since it was his for the gathering it seemed sour—as indeed it was, and he was not the man to allow himself to be tied to the apron-strings of a child. When he was in a good humour he watched his future wife amusedly as she metaphorically and sometimes literally danced before him, but he discouraged the excess of audacity that had attracted him formerly, perhaps because he scarcely relished the idea of a Princess Tor di Rocca singing, “O che la gioia mi fè morir.”
Probably he regretted gentle, amenable Edna. At times he was grimly, impenetrably silent, and often he said things that would have wounded a tender heart past healing. Fortunately there were none such in the Palazzo Lorenzoni.
“I shall be ridiculous as the Alighieri, and you must forgive me, Mamie, if I say that one scarcely sees in you a reincarnation of Monna Beatrice.”