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Updated: June 2, 2025
In his drunkenness he grew merry, and when Ramiro del' Orca grew merry men crossed themselves and betook them to their prayers. He would fain be amused, and to serve that end he summoned one of his sbirri and bade the fellow drag Boccadoro from his dungeon and fetch him into his presence.
And Madonna, it seems, had loudly proclaimed how gallantly I had served her, for as they bore me along in a cloak carried by four men-at-arms, the cry that was heard in the streets of Pesaro that morning was "Boccadoro!" They had loved me, had those good citizens of Pesaro, and the news of my departure had cast a gloom upon the town.
For an hour or so that night I played the Fool for Messer Ramiro's entertainment in a manner which did high justice to the fame that at Pesaro I had earned for the name of Boccadoro.
"You are agreeably surprised, my Boccadoro?" said he, his fingers straying to his beard as was his custom. "My clemency is no more than you deserve in return for the service you have rendered to the House of Sforza." And he patted my head as though I had been one of his dogs that had borne itself bravely in the chase. I answered nothing.
They would have accounted it but a new jest of Boccadoro, the Fool, and one so ill-conceived that they might urge the Lord Giovanni to have him whipped for it. Aye, it would have been a folly, a futile act that would have earned me unbelief, contempt and anger. And yet there was a moment when jealousy urged me almost headlong to that rashness.
Her eyes met mine across the table, and seemed to harden as she looked. Her answer came in a vastly altered tone. "Why, if you are bent that way, I shall be glad to have you avail yourself of my escort, Boccadoro."
With me life moved as if that winter excursion and adventure had never been. Even the memory of it must have faded into a haze that scarce left discernible any semblance of reality, for I was once again Boccadoro, the golden-mouthed Fool, whose sayings were echoed by every jester throughout Italy.
She inclined her head, murmuring an unhesitating assent. Satisfied, he bowed to her and to Madonna Paola who had been looking on with eyes that wonder had set wide open and turning on his heel he strode briskly away. As he passed into the castle, Madonna Lucrezia heaved a sigh and rose. "My poor Boccadoro," she cried, "I fear me your affairs must wait a while.
Just such a vanity as had spurred him to have me write him verses that he might pretend were of his own making, moved him now to grasp at my proposal. They would all think that Giovanni's armour contained Giovanni himself. None would ever suspect Boccadoro the Fool within that shell of steel. His honour would be vindicated, and he would not lose the esteem of Madonna Paola.
"His Most Illustrious Excellency the Cardinal of Valencia is asking for you, Messer Boccadoro," he announced. And so despairing had been my mood of ever hearing such a summons that, for a moment, I accounted it some fresh jest of theirs. But the gravity of his fat countenance reassured me.
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