His secretary, a member of an old patrician family, shrugged his shoulders; his unspoken thought was, “if I have to live with them in Heaven, I hope I’ll never die.”
The Cardinal had been confined to his room for some days with an attack of weakness, the result of an overtaxed heart. The doctor said to him, “Your Eminence, you must shun all excitement—no more receptions, no more arduous night work, no activity of any kind.”
The Cardinal smiled, “That would be premature death; I must take my chances. But at present I cannot work; I have no strength.”
His new honors had not changed his mode of living. His palazzo, a relic of past grandeur, was simply furnished with only the necessary chairs and tables, and completely bare of drapery or superfluous decorations. The Roman sun flooded his rooms through the high-arched windows. The garden of boxwood hedges and old trees was beautiful and fragrant; he could stand on his terrace and see the cupolas and innumerable spires of the city of churches, and listen to the bells pealing—now soft, caressing, pleading—now loud, harsh, commanding—those eternal bells that have welcomed into the world, and followed out of it, millions of souls.
The Cardinal sat in his private apartment. His fingers tapped nervously on the polished wood of the table upon which was a dish of fruits—figs, honey, and a silver jug of iced water—a habit he had brought from the land of his adoption. He was waiting for Joseph. In the excitement of his new honors, weeks had passed with only now and then the accustomed epistolary greetings, but the time was approaching to speak of the future. If he could realize his plan, thought out in every detail, this boy would inherit his wealth, would carry on his work among the poor.
A spasm of agony turned his lips blue, his face livid. He quickly dropped a tablet into a glass of water and swallowed it. The unbearable pain slowly subsided; the brain moved again.
“If God would be merciful and let him live to see the boy ordained.”
A flash of determination, of invincible Will. Yes, it would be! It must be! He forgot the dark-cornered room; he saw the cathedral, the procession of priests, the young divine. Why didn’t the boy come? He was eager to stamp his plan with the seal of realization. A shaft of sunlight shooting through the window struck the chair opposite him. His sick heart bounded. Seated there he saw his old friend and enemy, Joseph Abravanel. He slowly made his way to the chair, passing his hand over it; it was empty. His thought had conjured up a momentary vision. How often had they sat like that, opposite each other at a table set with fruit and wine, the long evening passing like a flash over the chess board which became symbolical of the spiritual struggle between them. The tenacity of that old man, who would not give up hope, even after the conversion of his daughter!
“You have won this time, but there is the next generation.”
When Julie was born, he was cheated again in this game for souls; but he would not give in, “God’s chosen people cannot die; they may lose the path, but they will find it again; they will come back in the third generation.”