hed on one side. Then my usurer, not
knowing me, though indeed I knew him, or not liking the looks of me, as
indeed his looks were distasteful to me, for I think a man's money greed
is ever written in bitter ink upon the parchment of his face, passed
away into the crowd beyond. Thereafter there accosted Messer Folco a man
whose name I knew at the time but for the life of me I cannot recall it
now, and all that I can remember of him is that he was fat and affable
and a notorious giver and gleaner of gossip, as well as one that aped
acquaintance with the arts.

"Messer Folco, your servant," he began, in a voice that was as fat as
his abdomen. Then went on, in a splutter of rapture, "Why, what a
company! Here is all Florence, from base to apex." He paused for a
moment, and said behind his hand, in a loud whisper which came easily to
my ears, "Is the mysterious poet of your fellowship?" And he glanced
around knowingly, as if he hoped to divine the unknown among the
arriving guests.

Messer Folco looked at him gravely. "What poet, friend?" he asked; and I
truly think he questioned in all honesty of ignorance as to the man's
meaning, and my jolly gossip answered, all agog with his knowledge:

"Why, the poet we in Florence that have an ear for sweet sounds are all
talking of; the poet whose name no man knows, whose rhymes are on all
men's lips; the fellow that praises fair ladies as never fair ladies
were praised before since Orpheus carolled in Arcady."

Then I noted how Messer Folco, with the air of one that did indeed
recall some idle rumor, looked at him curiously, as one that is puzzled
how busy men can interest themselves in such trifles as love rhymes, and
he answered, quietly, "I have given little heed to this wonder; I have
been too busy with bricks and mortar. Here comes one who may lighten our
darkness."

Even as he spoke my ever beloved friend and the ever beloved friend of
all who were young with me and of all good Florentines, Messer Guido
Cavalcanti, came into the room.

Messer Folco wrung him heartily by the hand, for he loved him no less
than the rest of us. "Messer Guido, ever welcome," he cried, "never more
than now. Perhaps you can tell us--"

But before he had time to say what he had to say, Messer Guido
Cavalcanti interrupted him, not uncivilly, but as one that wished to
spare a good man the pains of saying what his hearer already understood
as clearly as words could utter it. "I wager I know what