pleasant predictions about Niccolò Macchiavelli, as a young man of promise, who was expected to mend the broken fortunes of his ancient family.
“Why, Melema, what evil dream did you have last night, that you took my light grasp for that of a sbirro or something worse?”
“Ah, Messer Niccolò!” said Tito, recovering himself immediately; “it must have been an extra amount of dullness in my veins this morning that shuddered at the approach of your wit. But the fact is, I have had a bad night.”
“That is unlucky, because you will be expected to shine without any obstructing fog today in the Rucellai Gardens. I take it for granted you are to be there.”
“Messer Bernardo did me the honour to invite me,” said Tito; “but I shall be engaged elsewhere.”
“Ah! I remember, you are in love,” said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, “else you would never have such inconvenient engagements. Why, we are to eat a peacock and ortolans under the loggia among Bernardo Rucellai’s rare trees; there are to be the choicest spirits in Florence and the choicest wines. Only, as Piero de’ Medici is to be there, the choice spirits may happen to be swamped in the capping of impromptu verses. I hate that game; it is a device for the triumph of small wits, who are always inspired the most by the smallest occasions.”
“What is that you are saying about Piero de’ Medici and small wits, Messer Niccolò?” said Nello, whose light figure was at that moment predominating over the Herculean frame of Niccolò Caparra.
That famous worker in iron, whom we saw last with bared muscular arms and leathern apron in the Mercato Vecchio, was this morning