“A regular Renaissance man,” I punned, then worried that the joke wouldn’t translate.
She laughed. “Ah, bon.” She checked the smaller book’s contents, then flipped to a chapter. “So. Vasari writes this about Giotto. He says, ‘When Clement Five became pope and brought the papal court to Avignon, Giotto came with him. And while he was here, he made many beautiful pictures and frescoes, which pleased the pope and the entire court very much. And so, when the work was all finished, the pope sent him back to Florence with love, and with many gifts. Giotto was rich and honored and famous.’ You see,” she said with a smile, “I told you: If the pope likes you, you don’t starve.”
“Ah,” I said.
CHAPTER 16
I MADE IT TO THE LIBRARY AN HOUR BEFORE CLOSING time. Neither of Elisabeth’s books showed paintings from Giotto’s Avignon period, but I felt sure the library would have a more comprehensive book. And I was glad to have another occasion to visit the former cardinal’s palace, which was now a palace of books.
The building was fronted by a square courtyard, which was open to the street but was flanked on its other three sides by a magnificent stone building in the shape of a low, wide U. The two wings seemed like later additions to the building’s massive central core; that part was three stories high—three very tall stories of pale, putty-colored stone, topped by crenellations. Unlike the battlements atop the Palace of the Popes, the crenellations here appeared merely decorative; the building was large, but not fortified, and the immense leaded-glass windows in its fa?ade would have posed no barrier to attack.
I entered through a large glass door at the center of the building. Directly inside was a foyer with a massive stone staircase leading upward. One floor up, I entered the main reading room—once a cardinal’s banquet hall, it now served up a feast of books—and made for the reference desk. There I found the helpful librarian Philippe on duty again. He smiled at me in recognition. “Bonjour, monsieur. Are you back for more research on Eckhart?”
“Not this time,” I answered. “Art history this time. Do you have any books on the artist Giotto? An Italian painter. Giotto di…” I floundered for the last name.
“Di Bondoni. But of course. Magnifique. Come.” He led me down the long wall of the great room, to a section where oversized art books were shelved. They were arranged alphabetically, and midway along the wall, we came to G. Philippe pulled out two books—a thin one and a fat one—then reshelved the thin one. “That one is no good,” he said dismissively. “Everything in that one is also in this one. And more.” He handed me the fat book; it was two inches thick, a foot high, eighteen inches wide, and ten pounds heavy. The text was in French, but I figured that didn’t matter much; I was interested in the pictures.
“Thank you,” I said to the young man. “This is such a beautiful library. Is it okay if I take this upstairs to the mezzanine?”
“Sure. I prefer the mezzanine also. Very tranquil, and the view is the best.”
I lugged the book up another flight of stone stairs, emerging onto the balcony that overlooked the grand hall. I could easily imagine five hundred guests—cardinals, bishops, wealthy merchants, dukes and duchesses, and other lords and ladies. Twenty feet below me, where the banquet tables would have been set with gilded china, sparkling crystal, and platters of food, row upon row of shelves now marched across the tiled floor. Twenty feet above me were the timbered squares of the coffered ceiling, whose main joists measured at least eighteen inches square.
I was headed for one of the balcony’s wooden study tables when I spotted a chair tucked into a deep recess beneath a leaded-glass window. I settled into the cozy niche, imagining myself living and working in such opulence: a visiting scholar, perhaps, or the personal physician to his eminence the Cardinal, stealing a few moments in this out-of-the-way nook to peruse an illuminated manuscript from his prized collection.