Furthermore, instead of betaking himself at once to the Hôtel de Nesle, he called upon one of his friends named Guido, a physician from Florence; and when he had made sure that his friend was at home, and could conveniently entertain him at supper, he ordered little Jehan to return alone, to say that he had remained at Fontainebleau and would not return until the next day, and to be ready to open the door when he should knock. Little Jehan at once set out for the Hôtel de Nesle, promising to abide by his instructions.
The supper was served,—but before they took their places at the table Cellini asked his host if he did not know some honest and skilful notary whom he could send for to prepare a contract that could not be assailed. He recommended his son-in-law, who was immediately summoned.
He arrived as they were finishing their supper, some half-hour later. Benvenuto at once left the table, closeted himself with him, and bade him draw up a marriage contract leaving the names in blank. When they had read and re-read the contract, as drawn up, to make sure that there was no flaw in it, Benvenuto paid him handsomely, put the contract in his pocket, borrowed from his friend a second sword of just the length of his own, put it under his cloak, and, as it had become quite dark, started for the Hôtel de Nesle.
When he reached his destination, he knocked once; but though he knocked very gently, the door immediately opened. Little Jehan was at his post.
Cellini questioned him: the workmen were at supper and did not expect him until the morrow. He bade the child maintain the most absolute silence as to his arrival, then crept up to Catherine's room, to which he had retained a key, entered softly, closed the door, concealed himself behind the hangings, and waited.
After a short time, he heard a light footstep on the staircase. The door opened a second time, and Scozzone entered, lamp in hand; she took the key from the outside, locked the door, placed the lamp on the chimneypiece, and sat down in a large arm-chair, so placed that Benvenuto could see her face.
To his vast astonishment, that face, formerly so open and joyous and animated, was sad and thoughtful. The fact was that poor Scozzone was in the throes of something very like remorse.
We have seen her when she was happy and thoughtless: then Benvenuto loved her. So long as she was conscious of that love, or rather of that kindly feeling in her lover's heart, so long as the hope of becoming the sculptor's wife some day was present like a golden cloud in all her dreams, so long she maintained herself at the level of her anticipations, and made atonement for her past by her love. But as soon as she discovered that she had been deceived by appearances, and that what she had mistaken for passion on Cellini's part was at most a mere whim, she descended the ladder of hope round by round. Benvenuto's smile, which had made that faded heart blossom anew, was taken from her, and the heart lost its freshness once more.
With her childish light-heartedness her childish purity had gradually vanished; her old nature, powerfully assisted by ennui, gently recovered the upper hand. A newly painted wall keeps its colors in the sun and loses them in the rain: Scozzone, abandoned by Cellini for some unknown mistress, was no longer held to him save by a remnant of her pride. Pagolo had long paid court to her: she spoke to Cellini of his love, thinking that his jealousy would be aroused. Her expectation was not realized: Cellini, instead of losing his temper, began to laugh, and, instead of forbidding her to see Pagolo, actually ordered her to receive him. Thereafter she felt that she was entirely lost; thereafter she abandoned her life to chance with her former indifference, and let it blow about in the wind of circumstances like a poor, fallen withered leaf.
Then it was that Pagolo triumphed over her indifference. After all was said, Pagolo was young; Pagolo, aside from his hypocritical expression, was a handsome youth; Pagolo was in love, and was forever repeating to her that he loved her, while Benvenuto had long since ceased to tell her so. The words, "I love you," are the language of the heart, and the heart always feels the need of speaking that language more or less ardently with some one.