strength and splendor in nobles, and knights, and youthful pages of choice lineage at the bossed and jeweled sword- hilts, at the satin scarfs embroidered with strange symbolical devices of pious or gallant meaning, at the gold chains and jeweled aigrettes, at the gorgeous horse-trappings and brocaded mantles, and at the transcendent canopy carried by select youths above the head of the Most Christian King. To sum up with an old diarist, whose spelling and diction halted a little behind the wonders of this royal visit-"fù gran magnificenza." his admirers would have been much assisted. It might have been wished that the scourge of Italian wickedness and "Champion of the honor of women" had had a less miserable leg, and only the normal sum of toes; that his mouth had been of a less reptilian width of slit, his nose and head of a less exorbitant outline. But the thin leg rested on cloth of gold and pearls, and the face was only an interruption of a few square inches in the midst of black velvet and gold, and the blaze of rubies, and the brilliant tints of the embroidered and bepearled canopy—“ fù gran magnificenza." And the people had cried Francia, Francia! with an enthusiasm proportioned to the splendor of the canopy which they had torn to pieces as their spoil, according to immemorial custom; royal lips had duly kissed the altar; and after all mischances the royal person and retinue were But for the Signoria, who had been waiting on their platform against the gates, and had to march out at the right moment, with their orator in front of them, to meet the mighty guest, the grandeur of the scene had been somewhat screened by unpleasant sensations. If Messer Luca Corsini could have had a brief Latin welcome depending from his mouth in legible char-lodged in the Palace of the Via Larga, the rest acters, it would have been less confusing when the rain came on, and created an impatience in men and horses that broke off the delivery of his well-studied periods, and reduced the representatives of the scholarly city to offer a make-shift welcome in impromptu French. But that sudden confusion had created a great opportunity for Tito. As one of the secretaries he was among the officials who were stationed behind the Signoria, and with whom these highest dignities were promiscuously thrown when pressed upon by the horses. of the nobles and gentry were dispersed among the great houses of Florence, and the terrible soldiery were encamped in the Prato and other open quarters. The business of the day was ended. But the streets still presented a surprising aspect, such as Florentines had not seen before under the November stars. Instead of a gloom unbroken except by a lamp burning feebly here and there before a saintly image at the street corners, or by a stream of redder light from an open door-way, there were lamps suspended at the windows of all houses, so that men could walk along no less securely and commodiously than by day-“fù gran magnificenza." Along those illuminated streets Tito Melema was walking at about eight o'clock in the evening on his way homeward. He had been exerting himself throughout the day under the pressure of hidden anxieties, and had at last made his escape unnoticed from the midst of after-supper gayety. Once at leisure thoroughly to face and consider his circumstances, he hoped that he could so adjust himself to them and to all probabilities as to get rid of his child Tito stepped forward in an instant, and with the air of profound deference that came as naturally to him as walking, said the few needful words in the name of the Signoria, then gave way gracefully, and let the king pass on. His presence of mind, which had failed him in the terrible crisis of the morning, had been a ready instrument this time. It was an excellent liv-ish fear. If he had only not been wanting in the ery servant that never forsook him when danger was not visible. But when he was complimented on his opportune service, he laughed it off as a thing of no moment, and to those who had not witnessed it, let Gaddi have the credit of the improvised welcome. No wonder Tito was popular: the touchstone by which men try us is -most often their own vanity. Other things besides the oratorical welcome had turned out rather worse than had been expected. If every thing had happened according to ingenious preconceptions, the Florentine procession of clergy and laity would not have found their way choked up and been obliged to improvise a course through the back streets, so as to meet the king at the Cathedral only. Also, if the young monarch under the canopy, seated on his charger with his lance upon his thigh, had looked more like a Charlemagne and less like a hastily modeled grotesque, the imagination of presence of mind necessary to recognize Baldassarre under that surprise!-it would have been happier for him on all accounts; for he still winced under the sense that he was deliberately inflicting suffering on his father: he would very much have preferred that Baldassarre should be prosperous and happy. But he had left himself no second path now: there could be no conflict any longer: the only thing he had to do was to take care of himself. While these thoughts were in his mind he was advancing from the Piazza di Santa Croce along the Via dei Benci, and as he neared the angle turning into the Borgo Santa Croce his ear was struck by a music which was not that of evening revelry, but of vigorous labor-the music of the anvil. Tito gave a slight start and quickened his pace, for the sounds had suggested a welcome thought. He knew that they came from the workshop of Niccolò Caparra, famous resort columns with roughly carved capitals. Against the red light framed in by the outline of the fluted tiles and columns stood in black relief the grand figure of Niccolò, with his huge arms in rhythmical rise and fall, first hiding and then disclosing the profile of his firm mouth and powerful brow. Two slighter ebony figures, one at the anvil, the other at the bellows, served to set off his superior massiveness. Tito darkened the door-way with a very different outline, standing in silence, since it was useless to speak until Niccolò should deign to NICCOLÒ AT WORK. pause and notice him. That was not until the | my shop often enough to know my sign: you've smith had beaten the head of an axe to the due seen the burning account-books-I trust nobody. sharpness of edge and dismissed it from his an- The price is twenty florins, and that's because it's vil. But in the mean time Tito had satisfied second-hand. You're not likely to have so much himself by a glance round the shop that the ob- with you. Let it be till to-morrow." ject of which he was in search had not disappeared. "I've been at the same work all day-making axes and spear-heads. And every fool that has passed my shop has put his pumpkin-head in to say, 'Niccolò, wilt thou not come and see the King of France and his soldiers?' and I've answered, 'No: I don't want to see their facesI want to see their backs.'" 66 Are you making arms for the citizens, then, Niccolò?-that they may have something better than rusty scythes and spits in case of an uproar?" "We shall see. Arms are good, and Florence is likely to want them. The Frate tells us we shall get Pisa again, and I hold with the Frate; but I should be glad to know how the promise is to be fulfilled, if we don't get plenty of good weapons forged? The Frate sees a long way before him-that I believe. But he doesn't see birds caught with winking at them, as some of our people try to make out. He sees sense, and not nonsense. But you're a bit of a Medicean, Messer Tito Melema. Ebbene! so I've been myself in my time, before the cask began to run sour. What's your business?" "Simply to know the price of that fine coat of mail I saw hanging up here the other day. I want to buy it for a certain personage who needs a protection of that sort under his doublet." "Let him come and buy it himself, then," said Niccolò, bluntly. "I'm rather nice about what I sell, and whom I sell to. I like to know who's my customer." "I know your scruples, Niccolò. But that is only defensive armor: it can hurt nobody." "True; but it may make the man who wears it feel himself all the safer if he should want to hurt somebody. No, no: it's not my own work; but it's fine work of Maso of Brescia: I should be loth for it to cover the heart of a scoundrel. I must know who is to wear it." "Well, then, to be plain with you, Niccolò mio, I want it myself," said Tito, knowing it was useless to try persuasion. "The fact is, I am likely to have a journey to take-and you know what journeying is in these times. You don't suspect me of treason against the Republic ?" "No, I know no harm of you," said Niccolò, in his blunt way again. "But have you the money to pay for the coat? For you've passed "I happen to have the money," said Tito, who had been winning at play all the day before, and had not emptied his purse. "I'll carry the armor home with me." Niccolò reached down the finely wrought coat, which fell together into little more than two handfuls. "There, then," he said, when the florins had been told down on his palm. "Take the coat. It's made to cheat sword, or poniard, or arrow. But for my part I would never put such a thing on. It's like carrying fear about with one." Niccolo's words had an unpleasant intensity of meaning for Tito. But he smiled and said, "Ah, Niccolò, we scholars are all cowards. Handling the pen doesn't thicken the arm as your hammer-wielding does. Addio!" He folded the armor under his mantle and hastened homeward across the Ponte Rubaconte. "Is not Tito coming to write?" he had said, when the bell had long ago sounded the usual hour in the evening. He had not asked before, from dread of a negative; but Romola had seen by his listening face and restless movements that nothing else was in his mind. "No, father, he had to go to a supper at the cardinal's: you know he is wanted so much by every one," she answered, in a tone of gentle excuse. "Ah! then perhaps he will bring some positive word about the library; the cardinal promised last week," said Bardo, apparently pacified by this hope. given her best woman's love and worship. The breath of sadness that still cleaved to her lot while she saw her father month after month sink from elation into new disappointment as Tito gave him less and less of his time, and made bland excuses for not continuing his own share of the joint work—that sadness was no fault of Tito's, she said, but rather of their inevitable destiny. If he staid less and less with her, why, that was because they could hardly ever be alone. His caresses were no less tender: if she pleaded timidly on any one evening that he should stay with her father instead of going to another engagement which was not peremptory, he ex He was silent a little while; then, suddenly cused himself with such charming gayety, he flushing, he said, "I must go on without him, Romola. Get the pen. He has brought me no new text to comment on; but I must say what I want to say about the New Platonists. I shall die and nothing will have been done. Make haste, my Romola." seemed to linger about her with such fond playfulness before he could quit her, that she could only feel a little heartache in the midst of her love, and then go to her father and try to soften his vexation and disappointment, while inwardly her imagination was busy trying to see how Tito could be as good as she had thought he was, "I am ready, father," she said, the next min- and yet find it impossible to sacrifice those pleasute, holding the pen in her hand. But there was silence. Romola took no note of this for a little while, accustomed to pauses in | dictation; and when at last she looked round inquiringly there was no change of attitude. “I am quite ready, father!" ures of society which were necessarily more vivid to a bright creature like him than to the common run of men. She herself would have liked more gayety, more admiration: it was true, she gave it up willingly for her father's sake-she would have given up much more than that for Still Bardo was silent, and his silence was the sake even of a slight wish on Tito's part. never again broken. Romola looked back on that hour with some indignation against herself, because even with the first outburst of her sorrow there had mingled the irrepressible thought, "Perhaps my life with Tito will be more perfect now!" For the dream of a triple life with an undivided sum of happiness had not been quite fulfilled. The rainbow-tinted shower of sweets, to have been perfectly typical, should have had some invisible seeds of bitterness mingled with them; the crowned Ariadne, under the snowing roses, had felt more and more the presence of unexpected thorns. It was not Tito's fault, Romola had continually assured herself. was still all gentleness to her, and to her father also. He But it was in the nature of things-she saw it clearly now-it was in the nature of things that no one but herself could go on month after month, and year after year, fulfilling patiently all her father's monotonous exacting demands. Even she, whose sympathy with her father had made all the passion and religion of her young years, had not always been patient, had been inwardly very rebellious. It was true that before their marriage, and even for some time after, Tito had seemed more unwearying than herself; but then, of course, the effort had the ease of novelty. We assume a load with confident readiness, and up to a certain point the growing irksomeness of pressure is tolerable; but at last the desire for relief can no longer be resisted. Romola said to herself that she had been very foolish and ignorant in her girlish time she was wiser now, and would make no unfair demands on the man to whom she had It was clear that their natures differed widely; but perhaps it was no more than the inherent difference between man and woman that made her affections more absorbing. If there were any other difference she tried to persuade herself that the inferiority was on her side. Tito was really kinder than she was, better tempered, less proud and resentful; he had no angry retorts, he met all complaints with perfect sweetness; he only escaped as quietly as he could from things that were unpleasant. It belongs to every large nature, when it is not under the immediate power of some strong unquestioning emotion, to suspect itself, and doubt the truth of its own impressions, conscious of possibilities beyond its own horizon. And Romola was urged to doubt herself the more by the necessity of interpreting her disappointment in her life with Tito so as to satisfy at once her love and her pride. Disappointment? Yes, there was no other milder word that would tell the truth. Perhaps all women had to suffer the disappointment of ignorant hopes, if she only knew their experience. Still, there had been something peculiar in her lot: her relation to her father had claimed unusual sacrifices from her husband. Tito had once thought that his love would make those sacrifices easy; his love had not been great enough for that. not justified in resenting a self-delusion. No! resentment must not rise: all endurance seemed easy to Romola rather than a state of mind in which she would admit to herself that Tito acted unworthily. If she had felt a new heartache, in the solitary hours with her father through the last months of his life, it had been by no in She was excusable fault of her husband's; and now-it | library. The times, she knew, were unpleasant was a hope that would make its presence felt for friends of the Medici, like her godfather even in the first moments when her father's and Tito: superstitious shop-keepers, and the place was empty-there was no longer any importunate claim to divide her from Tito; their young lives would flow in one current, and their true marriage would begin. But the sense of something like guilt toward her father, in a hope that grew out of his death, gave all the more force to the anxiety with which she dwelt on the means of fulfilling his supreme wish. That piety toward his memory was all the atonement she could make now for a thought that seemed akin to joy at his loss. The laborious simple life, pure from vulgar corrupting ambitions, embittered by the frustration of the dearest hopes, imprisoned at last in total darkness—a long seed-time without a harvestwas at an end now, and all that remained of it besides the tablet in Santa Croce and the unfinished manuscript, long rambling commentary on Tito's text, was the collection of manuscripts and antiquities, fruit of half a century's toil and frugality. The fulfillment of her father's lifelong ambition about this library was a sacramental obligation for Romola. The precious relic was safe from creditors, for when the deficit toward their payment had been ascertained, Bernardo del Nero, though he was far from being among the wealthiest Florentines, had advanced the necessary sum of about a thousand florins—a large sum in those days-accepting a lien on the collection as a security.. "The State will repay me," he had said to Romola, making light of the service which had really cost him some inconvenience. "If the cardinal finds a building, as he seems to say he will, our Signoria may consent to do the rest. I have no children, I can afford the risk." stupid rabble, were full of suspicions; but her new keen interest in public events, in the outbreak of war, in the issue of the French king's visit, in the changes that were likely to happen in the State, was kindled solely by the sense of love and duty to her father's memory. All Romola's ardor had been concentrated in her affections. Her father's learning had remained for her a pedantry that was tolerable for his sake; and Tito's more airy brilliant faculty had no attraction for her that was not merged in the deeper sympathies that belong to young love and trust. Romola had had contact with no mind that could stir the larger possibilities of her nature; they lay folded and crushed like embryonic wings, making no element in her consciousness beyond an occasional vague uneasiness. But this new personal interest of hers in public affairs had made her care at last to understand precisely what influence Fra Girolamo's preaching was likely to have on the turn of events. Changes in the form of the State were talked of, and all she could learn from Tito, whose secretaryship and serviceable talents carried him into the heart of public business, made her only the more eager to fill out her lonely day by going to hear for herself what it was that was just now leading all Florence by the ears. This morning, for the first time, she had been to hear one of the Advent sermons in the Duomo. When Tito had left her she had formed a sudden resolution, and after visiting the spot where her father was buried in Santa Croce, had walked on to the Duomo. The memory of that last scene with Dino was still vivid within her whenever she recalled it, but it had receded behind the experience and anxieties of her married life. The new sensibilities and questions which it had half awakened in her were quieted again by that subjection to her husband's mind which is felt by every wife who loves her husband with passionate devotedness and full reliance. She remembered the effect of Fra Girolamo's voice and presence on her as a ground for expecting that his sermon might move her in spite of his being a narrowminded monk. But the sermon did no more than slightly deepen her previous impression, that this fanatical preacher of tribulations was after all a man toward whom it might be possible for her to feel personal regard and reverence. To Romola these grave political changes had The denunciations and exhortations simply argathered their chief interest from their bearing rested her attention. She felt no terror, no pangs on the fulfillment of her father's wish. She of conscience: it was the roll of distant thunder, had been brought up in learned seclusion from that seemed grand, but could not shake her. the interests of actual life, and had been accus-But when she heard Savonarola invoke martyrtomed to think of heroic deeds and great princi- dom, she sobbed with the rest: she felt herself ples as something antithetic to the vulgar pres-penetrated with a new sensation—a strange syment, of the Pnyx and the Forum as something more worthy of attention than the councils of living Florentine men. And now the expulsion of the Medici meant little more for her than the extinction of her best hope about her father's But within the last ten days all hopes in the Medici had come to an end: and the famous Medicean collections in the Via Larga were themselves in danger of dispersion. French agents had already begun to see that such very fine antique gems as Lorenzo had collected belonged by right to the first nation in Europe; and the Florentine State, which had got possession of the Medicean library, was likely to be glad of a customer for it. With a war to recover Pisa hanging over it, and with the certainty of having to pay large subsidies to the French king, the State was likely to prefer money to manuscripts. pathy with something apart from all the definable interests of her life. It was not altogether unlike the thrill which had accompanied certain rare heroic touches in history and poetry; but the resemblance was as that between the mem |