“‘He ate himself, and made his father eat. When the two were finished, the Cardinal addressed the Pope. “God forgive thee, Borgia,” he said, “and prosper thy design for all its worth.” And he, in his turn, ate of his sweet, and flung the dish from him. “Consummatum est,” he said. “I have my peace to make with Heaven. I crave your Holiness’s permission to withdraw.”
“‘Now Don Cesare rose laughing, and rallying their guest for his weak stomach, saw him for a distance through the gardens and then himself returned. And there were we, the frightened witnesses, whispering half tearful now the thing was done, yet dreading that he should see and resent our tremors.
“‘But the Pope sat staring with a ghastly face; and Don Cesare sat down beside him, and the two fell murmuring together. And suddenly, in one moment, his Holiness uttered a mortal cry: “Corneto, I am poisoned! He hath retorted on us with our own!”
“‘It was true. The Cardinal, well foreseeing his fate, had prevailed, by bribes and prayers and promises, over the conscience of his Holiness’s cook, and had induced the man to serve to his masters the poison intended for himself. The Borgia took the Borgia’s own prescription, and died that night in torture. Cæsar hung between hell and earth awhile, and presently escaped. This is all true as I record it.’”
The monk ceased reading, and looked towards the couch. For a little no sound broke the stillness but the faint gasping of the patient and the noisome droning of a fly about the room.
“Balatrone?” whispered the Benedictine.
“I was that cook!” cried the dying man in a fearful voice. “Sfondrati read my secret, and recorded it, and bled me with it till he ruined me. I had to poison him to still his tongue and secure the record.”
The seated monk arose, and came with a fierce stride to the bed.
“Thou hast killed a Pope,” he said. “Yield up the secret of that poison—the Borgia death.”
“Absolve me first.”