inclinations, which were to drink, to divert himself with pretty women
and sleep his fill in a warm bed in winter and a nice cool one in
summer.

However, he had not visited the cellar to ponder on symbols and emblems,
and he was not long in carrying out his plan. He caught two dozen of the
cockroaches, without regard to sex or age, and popped them in a bag he
had brought with him for the purpose. This done, he proceeded to hide
the bag under his bed, and returned to the workroom, where his comrades
Bruno and Calendrino were painting, from the master's sketches, the good
St. Francis receiving the stigmata, and meantime devising some way of
hoodwinking Memmi the cobbler, whose wife was comely and obliging.

Buffalmacco, who was not less expert, far from it, than his two
comrades, mounted the ladder and started painting the wings of the
seraphic crucifix that came down from heaven to mark the Blessed Saint
with the five wounds of love, taking the utmost pains to blend in the
celestial pinions all the tenderest hues of the rainbow. The task
occupied him all day, and when old Tafi came back from San Giovanni, he
could not refrain from bestowing a few words of commendation on his
pupil. This cost him no small effort, for age and riches had made him
both cross and critical.

"My lads," he said, addressing the apprentices, "those wings are painted
with a good deal of spirit. Buffalmacco might go far in the art of
painting, if he would only apply himself more vigorously. But there, his
mind is far too much set on self-indulgence; and great achievements can
only be accomplished by steady labour. Now Calendrino here would beat
you all, with his industry--if he were not a born fool."