It was a marked day to Romola, for Piero di Cosimo, stimulated to greater industry on her behalf by the fear that he might have been the cause of pain to her in the past week, had sent home her father’s portrait. She had propped it against the back of his old chair, and had been looking at it for some time, when the door opened behind her, and Bernardo del Nero came in.
“It is you, godfather! How I wish you had come sooner! it is getting a little dusk,” said Romola, going towards him.
“I have just looked in to tell you the good news, for I know Tito has not come yet,” said Bernardo. “The French king moves off tomorrow: not before it is high time. There has been another tussle between our people and his soldiers this morning. But there’s a chance now of the city getting into order once more and trade going on.”
“That is joyful,” said Romola. “But it is sudden, is it not? Tito seemed to think yesterday that there was little prospect of the king’s going soon.”
“He has been well barked at, that’s the reason,” said Bernardo, smiling.
“His own generals opened their throats pretty well, and at last our Signoria sent the mastiff of the city, Fra Girolamo. The Cristianissimo was frightened at that thunder, and has given the order to move. I’m afraid there’ll be small agreement among us when he’s gone, but, at any rate, all parties are agreed in being glad not to have Florence stifled with soldiery any longer, and the Frate has barked this time to some purpose.
Ah, what is this?” he added, as Romola, clasping him by the arm, led him in front of the picture. “Let us see.”
He began to unwind his long scarf while she placed a seat for him.
“Don’t you want your spectacles, godfather?” said Romola, in anxiety that he should see just what she saw.