"If we had the money, you mean," retorted Marzio. "Why the devil should
he have money rather than we? Why don't you answer? Why should he wear
silk stockings--red silk stockings, the animal? Why should he want a
silver ewer and basin to wash his hands at his mass? Why would not an
earthen one do as well, such as I use? Why don't you answer? Eh?"

"Why should Prince Borghese live in a palace and keep scores of
horses?" inquired the young man calmly.

"Ay--why should he? Is there any known reason why he should? Am I not a
man as well as he? Are you not a man--you young donkey? I hate to think
that we, who are artists, who can work when we are put to it, have to
slave for such fellows as that--mumbling priests, bloated princes, a
pack of fools who are incapable of an idea! An idea! What am I saying?
Who have not the common intelligence of a cabbage-seller in the street!
And look at the work we give them--the creation of our minds, the labour
of our hands--"

"They give us their money in return," observed Gianbattista. "The
ancients, whom you are so fond of talking about, used to get their work
done by slaves chained to the bench--"

"Yes! And it has taken us two thousand years to get to the point we have
reached! Two thousand years--and what is it? Are we any better than
slaves, except that we work better?"

"I doubt whether we work better."

"What is the matter with you this morning?" cried Marzio. "Have you been