“It is well. Then the strict orders I gave four years ago to destroy every copy in Italy have been well discharged. However, for your comfort, on my being made Pope, some fool turned it into French: so that you may read it, at the price of exile.”
“Reduced to this strait we throw ourselves on your holiness's generosity. Vouchsafe to give us your infallible judgment on it!”
“Gently, gently, good Francesco. A Pope's novels are not matters of faith. I can but give you my sincere impression. Well then the work in question had, as far as I can remember, all the vices of Boccaccio, without his choice Italian.”
Fra Colonna. “Your holiness is known for slighting Aeneas Silvius as other men never slighted him. I did him injustice to make you his judge. Perhaps your holiness will decide more justly between these two boys-about blessing the beasts.”
The Pope demurred. In speaking of Plutarch he had brightened up for a moment, and his eye had even flashed; but his general manner was as unlike what youthful females expect in a Pope as you can conceive. I can only describe it in French. Le gentilhomme blase. A highbred, and highly cultivated gentleman, who had done, and said, and seen, and known everything, and whose body was nearly worn out. But double languor seemed to seize him at the father's proposal.
“My poor Francesco,” said he, “bethink thee that I have had a life of controversy, and am sick on't; sick as death. Plutarch drew me to this calm retreat; not divinity.”
“Nay, but, your holiness, for moderating of strife between two hot young bloods, {Makarioi oi eirinopioi}.”
“And know you nature so ill, as to think either of these high-mettled youths will reck what a poor old Pope saith?”
“Oh! your holiness,” broke in Gerard, blushing and gasping, “sure, here is one who will treasure your words all his life as words from Heaven.”
“In that case,” said the Pope, “I am fairly caught. As Francesco here would say—