The next day Tito remained away from home until late at night. 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.
“No, child, no,” said Bernardo, uncovering his grey head, as he seated himself with firm erectness. “For seeing at this distance, my old eyes are perhaps better than your young ones. Old men’s eyes are like old men’s memories; they are strongest for things a long way off.”
“It is better than having no portrait,” said Romola, apologetically, after Bernardo had been silent a little while. “It is less like him now than the image I have in my mind, but then that might fade with the years.” She rested her arm on the old man’s shoulder as she spoke, drawn towards him strongly by their common interest in the dead.
“I don’t know,” said Bernardo. “I almost think I see Bardo as he was when he was young, better than that picture shows him to me as he was when he was old. Your father had a great deal of fire in his eyes when he was young. It was what I could never understand, that he, with his fiery spirit, which seemed much more impatient than mine, could hang over the books and live with shadows all his life. However, he had put his heart into that.”
Bernardo gave a slight shrug as he spoke the last words, but Romola discerned in his voice a feeling that accorded with her own.
“And he was disappointed to the last,” she said, involuntarily. But immediately fearing lest her words should be taken to imply an accusation against Tito, she went on almost hurriedly, “If we could only see his longest, dearest wish fulfilled just to his mind!”
“Well, so we may,” said Bernardo, kindly, rising and putting on his cap. “The times are cloudy now, but fish are caught by waiting. Who knows? When the wheel has turned often enough, I may be Gonfaloniere yet before I die; and no creditor can touch these things.” He looked round as he spoke. Then, turning to her, and patting her cheek, said, “And you need not be afraid of my dying; my ghost will claim nothing. I’ve taken care of that in my will.”
Romola seized the hand that was against her cheek, and put it to her lips in silence.
“Haven’t you been scolding your husband for keeping away from home so much lately? I see him everywhere but here,” said Bernardo, willing to change the subject.
She felt the flush spread over her neck and face as she said, “He has been very much wanted; you know he speaks so well. I am glad to know that his value is understood.”
“You are contented then, Madonna Orgogliosa?” said Bernardo, smiling, as he moved to the door.
“Assuredly.”
Poor Romola! There was one thing that would have made the pang of disappointment in her husband harder to bear; it was, that anyone should know he gave her cause for disappointment. This might be a woman’s weakness, but it is closely allied to a woman’s nobleness. She who willingly lifts up the veil of her married life has profaned it from a sanctuary into a vulgar place.
XXXII
A Revelation
The next day Romola, like every other Florentine, was excited about the departure of the French. Besides her other reasons for gladness, she had a dim hope, which she was conscious was half superstitious, that those new anxieties about Tito, having come with the burdensome guests, might perhaps vanish with them. The French had been in Florence hardly eleven days, but in that space she had felt more acute unhappiness than she had known in her life before. Tito had adopted the hateful armour on the day of their arrival, and though she could frame
