Mila did not answer. She put out her hand so eagerly to seize and burn this last denunciation, that the Piccinino turned and saw that her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flush.
"I understand," he said, giving her the paper. "But he ought to have forwarded this denunciation before venturing to pay court to you. Always too late, always beside the mark, poor man!"
He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them. But suddenly he started and exclaimed:
"Can it be? This in his hands? Good! I did not believe you capable of making this capture. Excuse me, my dear abbé," he continued, putting in his pocket a paper much more bulky than the others, with an ironical bow to the miserable wretch lying at his feet, his mouth half-open and his eye glassy and lifeless. "I honor you with my esteem to a certain point. Really, I did not believe you capable of it!"
Ninfo's eyes seemed to rekindle. He tried to move, and there was a sort of rattle in his throat.
"Ah! have we reached that stage?" said the Piccinino, putting the mouth of the decanter of narcotized wine to his lips.
"Did that wake you up? You set more store by that than by the fair Mila, eh? In that case, you should have let love-making go, and should not have come here instead of attending to your business! Sleep, I pray you, your excellency, for if you understand what is going on, you will have to die!"
The abbé fell back upon the floor; his vitreous stare remained fastened like that of a dead man on the Piccinino's ironical face.
"He needs rest," said the latter to Mila, with a cruel smile; "let us not disturb him any more."
He secured the stout shutters at the windows with heavy padlocked iron bars, and left the room with Mila, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket.