Bertini bowed and left the room. It was not until the door was shut that the Cardinal spoke again.
'His Holiness expressed to me only last night his august desire to hear your husband sing, and regretted his inability to go to the Lateran for that purpose. His Holiness has now spent a good night and it may be hoped that he will be able to rise this afternoon. Your husband shall have an opportunity of singing to him before supper. That is all I can manage for him. He must do the rest.'
'Thank you, thank you!' cried Ortensia gratefully. 'Only——'
'What, madam?'
'How will he be able to sing, after such a night, if he is kept in prison? He will have a sore throat from the dampness, he will be worn out with anxiety, and weak for want of food! What chance can he possibly have of moving the Pope to pity?'
'I have attended to that, madam,' the Cardinal answered, tapping the letter that lay under his hand. 'The Maestro shall lack nothing which can restore his strength and his voice.'
He rang his little bell twice in quick succession, and at the same time he wrote an address on the folded paper. A man in black entered before he had finished. Then he scattered red sand on the writing, and poured it back into the sand-box.
'To Tor di Nona,' he said. 'Tell the messenger to gallop.'
The man was gone in an instant.
'You will find a chair downstairs,' the churchman said. 'The men are to take you to your apartment in my palace.'