“I have no hope of success,” I added, “for I am certain that Fortune will smile upon me only as long as I am near your eminence.”
For nearly an hour I told him all the grief with which my heart was bursting, weeping bitterly; yet I could not move him from his decision. Kindly, but firmly he pressed me to tell him to what part of Europe I wanted to go, and despair as much as vexation made me name Constantinople.
“Constantinople!” he exclaimed, moving back a step or two.
“Yes, monsignor, Constantinople,” I repeated, wiping away my tears.
The prelate, a man of great wit, but a Spaniard to the very back-bone, after remaining silent a few minutes, said, with a smile,
“I am glad you have not chosen Ispahan, as I should have felt rather embarrassed. When do you wish to go?”
“This day week, as your eminence has ordered me.”
“Do you intend to sail from Naples or from Venice?”
“From Venice.”
“I will give you such a passport as will be needed, for you will find two armies in winter-quarters in the Romagna. It strikes me that you may tell everybody that I sent you to Constantinople, for nobody will believe you.”