“You are somewhat lax there, Niccolò,” said Cennini, gravely. “I myself believe in the Frate’s integrity, though I don’t believe in his prophecies, and as long as his integrity is not disproved, we have a popular party strong enough to protect him and resist foreign interference.”
“A party that seems strong enough,” said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, and an almost imperceptible glance towards Tito, who was abandoning himself with much enjoyment to Nello’s combing and scenting. “But how many Mediceans are there among you? How many who will not be turned round by a private grudge?”
“As to the Mediceans,” said Cennini, “I believe there is very little genuine feeling left on behalf of the Medici. Who would risk much for Piero de’ Medici? A few old staunch friends, perhaps, like Bernardo del Nero; but even some of those most connected with the family are hearty friends of the popular government, and would exert themselves for the Frate. I was talking to Giannozzo Pucci only a little while ago, and I am convinced there’s nothing he would set his face against more than against any attempt to alter the new order of things.”
“You are right there, Messer Domenico,” said Tito, with a laughing meaning in his eyes, as he rose from the shaving-chair; “and I fancy the tender passion came in aid of hard theory there. I am persuaded there was some jealousy at the bottom of Giannozzo’s alienation from Piero de’ Medici; else so amiable a creature as he would never feel the bitterness he sometimes allows to escape him in that quarter. He was in the procession with you, I suppose?”
“No,” said Cennini; “he is at his villa—went there three days ago.”
Tito was settling his cap and glancing down at his splashed hose as if he hardly heeded the answer. In reality he had obtained a much-desired piece of information.