“Well, no, then! I didn’t see the Pope,” burst out Julius at last, containing himself no longer, “but I became possessed of a secret—a secret which, though almost incredible at first, received sudden confirmation from our dear Amédée’s death—an appalling—a bewildering secret—but one from which your faith, dear Anthime, will be able to draw comfort. You must know, then, that the Pope is innocent of the injustice of which you were the victim....”
“Tut! I never for a moment doubted it.”
“Listen to me, Anthime—I didn’t see the Pope—because he is not to be seen. The person who is actually seated on the pontifical throne, who is obeyed by the Church, who promulgates—the person who spoke to me—the Pope who is to be seen at the Vatican—the Pope whom I saw—is not the real one.”
At these words Anthime began to shake all over with a fit of loud laughter.
“Laugh away! Laugh away!” went on Julius, nettled. “I laughed too, to begin with. If I had laughed a little less, Fleurissoire would not have been murdered. Ah! poor dear saint that he was! Poor lamb of a victim!...” His voice trailed off into sobs.
“What? What? Do you mean to say that this ridiculous story is really true? Dear me! Dear me!...” said Armand-Dubois, who was disturbed by Julius’s pathos. “All the same, this must be inquired into....”
“It was for inquiring into it that he met his death.”
“Because if after all I’ve sacrificed my fortune, my position, my science—if I’ve consented to be made a fool of ...” continued Anthime, who was gradually becoming excited in his turn.
“But I tell you the real one is in no way responsible for any of that. The person who made a fool of you is a mere man of straw put up by the Quirinal.”
“Am I really to believe what you say?”