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Updated: May 15, 2025
"Buon giorno, Signore," said Nanni, and Daymond found himself returning the salutation with a courtesy that was little short of deferential. The two men had met upon a common footing, if the watery deep may be said to furnish one, and Geof had found himself at a disadvantage.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Uncle Dan, trembling for his guilty secret. "I'll tell him." "How can you tell him, if you don't know how?" May argued. Then, turning abruptly, and glancing up into the intent, forward-looking face, just visible in the uncertain lights of the Canal: "Hasn't your brother seen a doctor?" she asked. "Si, Signorina," Nanni replied, without an instant's hesitation.
Nanni di Baccio Bigio managed to influence the deputies so that they appointed him Clerk of the Works instead of Pier Luigi, surnamed Gaeta, who was recommended by Michael Angelo in a letter to them. Nanni then made a report, severely blaming Michael Angelo. The Pope had an interview with the artist, and sent his relative, Gabrio Serbelloni to report on the works.
On the other hand, the intelligence of his brother's face was here developed into something higher and more serious, higher and sadder, the Colonel thought, in the moment's pause that followed. He had not seen this protégé of his for ten years, and the years had left their impress upon him. "Vittorio has met with a slight accident," Nanni was saying.
None the less, by reason of these few works Nanni was held a passing good sculptor; and being a citizen, he obtained many offices in his native city of Florence, and because he bore himself like a just and reasonable man both in these and in all his other affairs, he was greatly beloved. He died of colic in the year 1430, at the age of forty-seven.
It was the sweetest, gayest little breeze, and in sheer exuberance of shallow emotion, the tiny waves plashed about the prow. May, who was sailing under the blue banner on this occasion, glanced now and then across the water, at the figure of Nanni, rowing the forward oar.
"Why, Nanni," she said; "there is nothing to forgive. You know best." She had not often said those three words in the easy self-confidence of her youth. "You know best," she said. "It is I who should beg pardon for thinking I knew." She held out her hand to him, as naturally as she would have done to Geoffry Daymond, and Nanni, stooping, lifted it to his lips.
She was roused at last by the tinkling of a goat-bell almost over her head, and woke up just in time to see her luncheon, cloth and all, disappearing into the mouth of Nanni, the brown goat! Poor Leneli screamed with dismay, and Fritz and Seppi, thinking perhaps she had hurt herself, came dashing to her side. Leneli was boiling with rage.
He was aware, to be sure, of the Colonel's studied secrecy in the matter, but secrets are ticklish things at the best, and no stray hint was likely to have been lost upon a girl of May's intelligence. He had a notion that, if he could get a word with Nanni himself, it would be easy to sound him on the point; a delusion that was destined to be early dissipated.
He was standing beside the iron railing, pulling at a contemplative cigar, and listening, with considerable relish, to the wrangling of the gondoliers, when he heard a voice just under the wall, saying: "Buona sera, Signore! It's Nanni." The Colonel had not observed that one of the shadowy barks had glided close in under the wall at his feet.
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