’Cicca,’ he said suddenly, ’what made thee a Fool?’ ’Circumstance,’ answered the other promptly. ’Ah!’ sighed Bembo—’that blind brute force of Nature, wavering out of chaos. No agent of God—His foe, rather, to be anticipated and circumvented. Providence is the true wise name for our Master. He _provideth_, of the immensity of His love, for and against. He can do no further, nor foretell but by analogy the blundering spites of Circumstance. But always He persuades the monster of his interest lying more and more in sweet order—dreams of him sleeping caged, a lazy, satiated chimera, in the mid-gardens of love.’ ’Che allegria!’ said Cicada; ’I will go then, and poke him in the ribs, and ask him why he made a Fool of me.’ Bembo smiled and sighed. ’There is a proof of his blindness. What, in truth, was thy origin, dear Cicca?’ The Fool came and leaned beside him. ’Canst look on me and ask? I was born in this dark age of tyranny, and of it; I shall die in it and of it. I have never known liberty. Sobriety and reason are empty terms to me. Ask of me no fruit but the fruit of mine inheritance. A drunken woman in labour will bring forth a drunken child. I am Cicada the Fool, lower than a slave, curst pimp to Folly.’ Soft as a butterfly, Bernardo’s hand fluttered to his shoulder and rested there. The creature’s dim eyes were fixed upon the crawling plain; his face worked with emotion. ’There was a time,’ he said, ’I understand, when governments were loyal at once to the individual and the state—when they wrought for the common weal. In those days, it would seem certain, riches—anything above a specified income—must have disqualified a man for office. It is the ideal constitution. Corruption will enter else. Wealth, and the emulation of wealth, are the moth in stored states. That was the age of the republics and all the virtues. I am born, alack, after my time. I have held Esau the first saint in the calendar. I am not sure I do not do so now, Messer Bembo despite.’ ’And I, too, love Esau,’ said Bernardo quietly. Cicada, amazed, whipped upon him; then suddenly seized him in his arms. ’Thou dearest, most loving of babes!’ he cried rapturously; ’sweet saint of all to me! What! did I twit thee, mine emancipator, with my curse to thralldom? Loves Esau, quotha! No cant his creed. Child, thou art asphodel to that cactus. Put thy foot on this mouth that could so slander thee!’ ’Poor Cicca!’ said Bembo, gently disengaging himself. ’Thou rebukest sweetly my idle curiosity.’ ’Curiosity!’ cried the other. ’Would the angels always showed as much! Thou art welcome to all of me I can tell:—as, for example, that my mother—_exitus acta probat_—was a fool, a sweet, pretty, vicious fool; and yet, after all, not such a fool as, having borne, to acknowledge me.’ ’Poor wretch! Why not?’ ’Why not? Why, for the reason Pasiphae concealed her share in the Minotaur. Motley is the labyrinth of Milan. My father was a bull.’