Pope. For rarity’s sake, one hundred ducats.
Faustus. Here they are; and now write me out an absolution, that I may be able to shake it in the face of the Devil, provided I ever sell myself to him.
Chorus. Absolution to him who shall sell himself to the fiend.
A Nun. Most reverend Bishop, since you are writing out the absolution for the magician, be so good as to furnish me with a paper likewise,—you know for what. Here is my rosary; it is worth fifteen ducats; I shall have, therefore, something in bank until another absolution becomes necessary.
Ferrara wrote, and the Pope signed his name beneath.
Devil. Does your holiness imagine that Satan will pay any regard to these scraps of paper?
The grand inquisitor snatched his hand out of the bosom of an abbess, and screamed, with stammering tongue:
“I smell heresy! Who is the atheist? who has uttered that blasphemy?”
The Pope pressed his forefinger softly upon
the mouth of the Devil, and said, “Cavalier, these are state secrets: handle them not; for if you do, I myself, with all my authority, shall not be able to protect you.”