to Ciacco, who had observed what had passed.
Having paid the rogue, Ciacco rested not until he
had found Biondello, to whom:—“Wast
thou but now,” quoth he, “at the Loggia
de’ Cavicciuli?” “Indeed no,”
replied Biondello: “wherefore such a question?”
“Because,” returned Ciacco, “I may
tell thee that thou art sought for by Messer Filippo,
for what cause I know not.” “Good,”
quoth Biondello, “I will go thither and speak
with him.” So away went Biondello, and
Ciacco followed him to see what course the affair would
take.
Now having failed to catch the rogue, Messer Filippo
was still very wroth, and inly fumed and fretted,
being unable to make out aught from what the rogue
had said save that Biondello was set on by some one
or another to flout him. And while thus he vexed
his spirit, up came Biondello; whom he no sooner espied
than he made for him, and dealt him a mighty blow
in the face, and tore his hair and coif, and cast his
capuche on the ground, and to his “Alas, Sir,
what means this?” still beating him amain:—“Traitor,”
cried he; “I will give thee to know what it means
to send me such a message. ‘Colour the
flask,’ forsooth, and ‘Catamites!’
Dost take me for a stripling, to be befooled by thee?”
And therewith he pummelled Biondello’s face
all over with a pair of fists that were liker to iron
than aught else, until it was but a mass of bruises;
he also tore and dishevelled all his hair, tumbled
him in the mud, rent all his clothes upon his back,
and that without allowing him breathing-space to ask
why he thus used him, or so much as utter a word.
“Colour me the flask!” and “Catamites!”
rang in his ears; but what the words signified he
knew not. In the end very badly beaten, and in
very sorry and ragged trim, many folk having gathered
around them, they, albeit not without the utmost difficulty,
rescued him from Messer Filippo’s hands, and
told him why Messer Filippo had thus used him, censuring
him for sending him such a message, and adding that
thenceforth he would know Messer Filippo better, and
that he was not a man to be trifled with. Biondello
told them in tearful exculpation that he had never
sent for wine to Messer Filippo: then, when they
had put him in a little better trim, crestfallen and
woebegone, he went home imputing his misadventure to
Ciacco. And when, many days afterwards, the marks
of his ill-usage being gone from his face, he began
to go abroad again, it chanced that Ciacco met him,
and with a laugh:—“Biondello,”
quoth he, “how didst thou relish Messer Filippo’s
wine?” “Why, as to that,” replied
Biondello, “would thou hadst relished the lampreys
of Messer Corso as much!” “So!” returned
Ciacco, “such meat as thou then gavest me, thou
mayst henceforth give me, as often as thou art so
minded; and I will give thee even such drink as I
have given thee.” So Biondello, witting
that against Ciacco his might was not equal to his
spite, prayed God for his peace, and was careful never
to flout him again.
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