As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. ‘Their lawyers are working tirelessly, but they report that the situation is daily worsening. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. ’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty.
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