Scene III.
In the church of Saint X. the half of the Chapter on duty that week had just come out of choir, and were taking off their vestments and laying them away, each in his proper drawer in the wall of the sacristy. The sound of alternate singing and praying yet came from the church. A Novena was going on; and Monsignor Scalchi, the old canonico for whose place Monsignor Loredan waited so impatiently, officiated.
Some of the clergy hastened away, others lingered, chatting together. One stood watching the gloomy way in which Monsignor Loredan flicked a speck of dust from his broad-brimmed hat.
“Well?” said the young man, aware of the other’s gaze, but without looking at him.
“I was wondering how Monsignor Scalchi is,” his friend said.
“When he sees me, he coughs,” said the coadjutor.
At that moment the person of whom they spoke entered the sacristy, with a priest at either hand. A rustling cope of cloth of gold covered his whole person, his eyes were downcast, his hands folded palm to palm, and he murmured prayers as he came.
The young men stood respectfully aside as he passed, his garments smelling of incense, and went to disrobe at the other end of the sacristy.
“Don’t lose courage, Don Enrico!” said one of the group. “He looks feeble. He can scarcely lift his feet from the floor.”
“Poh!” exclaimed Don Enrico. “He is as strong as I am. He buys his shoes too long, so that they may drag at the heels and make him seem weak in the legs.”
He yawned, saluted with a graceful wave of the hand, and sauntered out into the silent piazza.
“Don Enrico is out of temper about his brother’s affairs, as well as his own,” one of his friends said when he was out of hearing. “They say that Claudio is in love with Tacita Mora, and is making a fool of himself. If he should offend the Sangredo, Don Enrico will lose the cardinal’s patronage. Professor Mora was as blind as a bat. He thought that Tacita was a child, and that Don Claudio was enamored of the Chinese language.”
“But the nurse never leaves the girl,” some one said.
“Oh! the nurse is dark!” said one of the sacristans.
Yes; they all agreed that the nurse was dark.
One after another they dropped away, till only Monsignor Scalchi was left kneeling at a prie-dieu, and an under-sacristan going about his work, filling a silver lamp for the shrine of Saint X., shaving down the lower ends of great yellow wax torches to set in triple-footed iron stands for a funeral, counting out wafers for the altar. There was silence save for a light lapse of water against the steps outside; there was a sleepy yellow sunshine on the marble floor, and a smell of incense in the soft air.
As Monsignor Scalchi rose from his knees, a second under-sacristan entered.
“Here are the books from San Lazzaro, Monsignore,” he said. “But the translations from the Turkish are not yet ready. The illness of Professor Mora delayed them. He was to have looked them over.”
“Did you learn how the professor is?” asked the prelate, glancing over the books given him.
“I went to ask, Monsignore. Gian says that he is failing fast. The Marchesa Loredan has been to see him.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Monsignor Scalchi, looking up from the volume in his hand.
“Yes; and Gian says that the nurse watches over everything.”
“The nurse seems to be a dark one,” monsignore remarked.
“Yes,” said the sacristan, “the nurse is dark.”