"Murdered!"
"So it seems! Here are the papers from which they cry the news. I will leave them with you. It is perhaps the judgment of Heaven on the Sovrani's uncle, Cardinal Bonpre!"
The mistress of the inn crossed herself devoutly.
"Guiosto cielo!—Would Heaven punish a Cardinal?"
"Certainly! If a Cardinal is a heretic!"
The stout padrona clasped her hands and shuddered.
"Not possible!"
"Quite possible!" And Gherardi drained his coffee-cup. "And when so great a personage of the Church is a renegade, he incurs two punishments—the punishment of God and the punishment of the Church! The one comes first—the other comes—afterwards! Buena notte!"
And throwing down the money for his refreshment, Gherardi cast another glance around him, muffled himself up in his coat and went out into the night. Florian Varillo breathed again. But he was not left in peace for long. The padrona summoned her husband from the kitchen where he performed the offices of cook, to read the halfpenny sheets of news her visitor had left with her.
"Look you!" she said in a low voice, "The wicked Monsignor who has thee, my poor Paolo, in his clutches for debt, has just passed by and left evil tidings!—that beautiful girl who painted the famous pictures in Rome, has been murdered! Do you not remember seeing her once with her father at Frascati?"