Up to this very morning he had been loudly declaring that Florence was given up to famine and ruin entirely through its blind adherence to the advice of the Frate, and that there could be no salvation for Florence but in joining the League and driving the Frate out of the city—sending him to Rome, in fact, whither he ought to have gone long ago in obedience to the summons of the Pope. It was suspected, therefore, that Messer Dolfo Spini’s heart was not aglow with pure joy at the unexpected succours which had come in apparent fulfilment of the Frate’s prediction, and the laughter, which was ringing out afresh as Tito joined the group at Nello’s door, did not serve to dissipate the suspicion. For leaning against the doorpost in the centre of the group was a close-shaven, keen-eyed personage, named Niccolò Macchiavelli, who, young as he was, had penetrated all the small secrets of egoism.
“Messer Dolfo’s head,” he was saying, “is more of a pumpkin than I thought. I measure men’s dullness by the devices they trust in for deceiving others. Your dullest animal of all is he who grins and says he doesn’t mind just after he has had his shins kicked.
If I were a trifle duller, now,” he went on, smiling as the circle opened to admit Tito, “I should pretend to be fond of this Melema, who has got a secretaryship that would exactly suit me—as if Latin ill-paid could love better Latin that’s better paid! Melema, you are a pestiferously clever fellow, very much in my way, and I’m sorry to hear you’ve had another piece of good-luck today.”
“Questionable luck, Niccolò,” said Tito, touching him on the shoulder in a friendly way; “I have got nothing by it yet but being laid hold of and breathed upon by wool-beaters, when I am as soiled and battered with riding as a tabellario (letter-carrier) from Bologna.”
“Ah! you want a touch of my art, Messer Oratore,” said Nello, who had come forward at the sound of Tito’s voice; “your chin, I perceive, has