"What!" cried Cecco; "what, Tribune!--would you deny the poor fellows a
holiday. They work hard enough, and their only pleasure is seeing your
fine shows and processions; and then they go home and say,--'See, our
man beats all the Barons! what state he keeps!'"

"Ah! they blame not my splendour, then!"

"Blame it; no! Without it they would be ashamed of you, and think the
Buono Stato but a shabby concern."

"You speak bluntly, Cecco, but perhaps wisely. The saints keep you! Fail
not to remember what I told you!"

"No, no. It is a shame to have an Emperor thrust upon us;--so it is.
Good evening, Tribune."

Left alone, the Tribune remained for some time plunged in gloomy and
foreboding thoughts.

"I am in the midst of a magician's spell," said he; "if I desist, the
fiends tear me to pieces. What I have begun, that must I conclude. But
this rude man shews me too well with what tools I work. For me failure
is nothing, I have already climbed to a greatness which might render
giddy many a born prince's brain. But with my fall--Rome, Italy, Peace,
Justice, Civilization--all fall back into the abyss of ages!"

He rose; and after once or twice pacing his apartment, in which from
many a column gleamed upon him the marble effigies of the great of old,
he opened the casement to inhale the air of the now declining day.