“What is it that threatens you, my Tito?” said Romola, looking terrified, and clinging to him again.
“Everyone is threatened in these times, who is not a rabid enemy of the Medici. Don’t look distressed, my Romola—this armour will make me safe against covert attacks.”
Tito put his hand on her neck and smiled. This little dialogue about the armour had broken through the new crust, and made a channel for the sweet habit of kindness.
“But my godfather, then,” said Romola; “is not he, too, in danger? And he takes no precautions—ought he not? since he must surely be in more danger than you, who have so little influence compared with him.”
“It is just because I am less important that I am in more danger,” said Tito, readily. “I am suspected constantly of being an envoy. And men like Messer Bernardo are protected by their position and their extensive family connections, which spread among all parties, while I am a Greek that nobody would avenge.”
“But, Tito, is it a fear of some particular person, or only a vague sense of danger, that has made you think of wearing this?” Romola was unable to repel the idea of a degrading fear in Tito, which mingled itself with her anxiety.
“I have had special threats,” said Tito, “but I must beg you to be silent on the subject, my Romola. I shall consider that you have broken my confidence, if you mention it to your godfather.”
“Assuredly I will not mention it,” said Romola, blushing, “if you wish it to be a secret. But, dearest Tito,” she added, after a moment’s pause, in a tone of loving anxiety, “it will make you very wretched.”
“What will make me wretched?” he said, with a scarcely perceptible movement across his face, as from some darting sensation.
“This fear—this heavy armour. I can’t help shuddering as I feel it under my arm. I could fancy it a story of enchantment—that some malignant fiend had changed your sensitive human skin into a hard shell. It seems so unlike my bright, lighthearted Tito!”
“Then you would rather have your husband exposed to danger, when he leaves you?” said Tito, smiling. “If you don’t mind my being poniarded or shot, why need I mind? I will give up the armour—shall I?”
“No, Tito, no. I am fanciful. Do not heed what I have said. But such crimes are surely not common in Florence? I have always heard my father and godfather say so. Have they become frequent lately?”
“It is not unlikely they will become frequent, with the bitter hatreds that are being bred continually.”
Romola was silent a few moments. She shrank from insisting further on the subject of the armour. She tried to shake it off.
“Tell me what has happened today,” she said, in a cheerful tone. “Has all gone off well?”
“Excellently well. First of all, the rain came and put an end to Luca Corsini’s oration, which nobody wanted to hear, and a ready-tongued personage—some say it was Gaddi, some say it was Melema, but really it was done so quickly no one knows who it was—had the honour of giving the Cristianissimo the briefest possible welcome in bad French.”
“Tito, it was you, I know,” said Romola, smiling brightly, and kissing him. “How is it you never care about claiming anything? And after that?”
“Oh! after that, there was a shower of armour and jewels, and trappings, such as you saw at the last Florentine giostra, only a great deal more of them. There was strutting, and prancing, and confusion, and scrambling, and the people shouted, and the Cristianissimo smiled from ear to ear. And after that there was a great deal of flattery, and eating, and play. I was at Tornabuoni’s. I will tell you about it tomorrow.”
“Yes, dearest, never mind now. But is there any more hope that things will end peaceably for Florence, that the Republic will not get into fresh troubles?”
Tito gave a shrug. “Florence will have no peace but what it pays well for; that is clear.”
Romola’s face saddened, but she checked herself, and said, cheerfully, “You would not guess where I went today, Tito. I went to the Duomo, to hear Fra Girolamo.”
Tito looked startled; he had immediately thought of Baldassarre’s entrance into the Duomo; but Romola gave his look another meaning.
“You are surprised, are you not? It was a sudden thought. I want to know all about the public affairs now, and I determined to hear for myself what the Frate promised the people about this French invasion.”
“Well, and what did you think of the prophet?”
“He certainly has a very mysterious power, that man. A great deal of his sermon was what I expected; but once I was strangely moved—I sobbed with the rest.”
“Take care, Romola,” said Tito, playfully, feeling relieved that she had said nothing about Baldassarre; “you have a touch of fanaticism in you. I shall have you seeing visions, like your brother.”
“No; it was the same with everyone else. He carried them all with him; unless it were that gross Dolfo Spini, whom I saw there making grimaces. There was even a wretched-looking man, with a rope round his neck—an escaped prisoner, I should think, who had run in for shelter—a very wild-eyed old man: I saw him with great tears rolling down his cheeks, as he looked and listened quite eagerly.”
There was a slight pause before Tito spoke.
“I saw the man,” he said—“the prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo Tornabuoni when he ran in. He had escaped from a French soldier. Did you see him when you came out?”
“No, he went out with our good old Piero di Cosimo. I saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and take him out of the church. But you want rest, Tito? You feel ill?”
“Yes,” said Tito, rising. The horrible sense that he must live in continual dread of what Baldassarre had said or done pressed upon him like a cold weight.
XXVIII
The Painted Record
Four days later, Romola
