ed in one," said Francesco Cei,
impetuously, "and say he has won the hatred of all men who have sense
and honesty, by inventing hypocritical lies. His proper place is among
the false prophets in the Inferno, who walk with their heads turned
hind-foremost."

"You are too angry, my Francesco," said Macchiavelli, smiling; "you
poets are apt to cut the clouds in your wrath. I am no votary of the
Frate's, and would not lay down my little finger for his veracity. But
veracity is a plant of paradise, and the seeds have never flourished
beyond the walls. You, yourself, my Francesco, tell poetical lies only;
partly compelled by the poet's fervour, partly to please your audience;
but _you_ object to lies in prose. Well, the Frate differs from you as
to the boundary of poetry, that's all. When he gets into the pulpit of
the Duomo, he has the fervour within him, and without him he has the
audience to please. Ecco!"

"You are somewhat lax there, Niccolo," 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