of him, and on them the Medici relied. For a year he was forbidden to
leave Florentine territory, and for a while was excluded from the
Palazzo. Later his name was found in a list of Anti-Medicean
conspirators. He was arrested and decorously tortured with six turns of
the rack, and then liberated for want of evidence.

[Sidenote: After his Fall.]

For perhaps a year after his release the Secretary engaged in a series
of tortuous intrigues to gain the favour of the Medici. Many of the
stories may be exaggerated, but none make pleasant reading, and nothing
proved successful. His position was miserable. Temporarily crippled by
torture, out of favour with the Government, shunned by his friends, in
deep poverty, burdened with debt and with a wife and four children, his
material circumstances were ill enough. But, worse still, he was idle.
He had deserved well of the Republic, and had never despaired of it, and
this was his reward. He seemed to himself a broken man. He had no great
natural dignity, no great moral strength. He profoundly loved and
admired Dante, but he could not for one moment imitate him. He sought
satisfaction in sensuality of life and writing, but found no comfort.
Great things were stirring in the world and he had neither part nor lot
in them. By great good fortune he began a correspondence with his friend
Francesco Vettori, the Medicean Ambassador at Rome, to whom he appeals
for his good offices: 'And if nothing can be done, I must live as I came
into the world, for I was born poor and learnt to want before learning
to enjoy.' Before long these two diplomats had co-opted themselves into
a kind of Secret Cabinet of Europe. It is a strange but profoundly
interesting correspondence, both politically and personally. Nothing is
too great or too small, too glorious or too mean for their pens. Amid
foolish anecdotes and rather sordid love affairs the politics of Europe,