"More than that, Eminenza. A statue; yes, a statue! Una bellezza!" And he looked down into his master's face with the air of one announcing the conquest of the world.
"Is it possible?" cried the prelate, delighted out of his usual calm. "Do you know what you are saying, Domenico? Oh, it will be some Barocco horror thrown there out of the way. What is it, what is it? Speak."
"How can I tell the Eminenza what it is? I am too uninstructed," the servant replied. "But I went down to see, and I beheld in the hole a large figure with no head and one arm gone—but a fine piece of a man."
The Cardinal rose from his chair. "I must go down at once," he said; "the other letters can be written to-morrow." This to the young priest who stood beside him. "I must see for myself, immediately." And he moved toward the door.
Simultaneously the servant and the chaplain rushed after him, the latter laying a hand on his arm and Domenico placing himself before the door. "For Heaven's sake," cried the younger man, "let the Eminenza not think of such a thing. The cold, the damp—it would be a most terrible imprudence."
Domenico took a still stronger stand. He held up his hand almost authoritatively and said, "This is a risk not to be run. Let us send at once for Professor Bianchi. He will descend to these catacombs, will see, will comprehend all. Then, having made full inspection, he will come up and tell us all about it. Is not this a better plan, Eminenza mia bella?" he concluded coaxingly.
The Cardinal laughed, sighed and submitted. "I suppose you are right, you two," he said; "you keep me as the carabinieri keep a malefactor. As if it would have hurt me to go down for five minutes! But have your way. Send at once for the Signor Professore, however, and beg him to come at his earliest convenience. Oh, if it could be a true antique! But I dream—who am I to deserve such good fortune, such honor?"
The Professor sent a flowery note in answer to the summons from Palazzo Cestaldini. He would have the honor of waiting upon the Cardinal in the morning, and he thanked him from his heart for permitting a humble seeker after knowledge to share the joy of discovery with him.
All that night, as the rain beat down with ever-increasing violence, the two learned men slept fitfully, dreaming of Greek perfection, turning, even as they looked at it, into some bit of degenerate Roman work, a coarse, fulsome likeness, with a removable marble wig and beard! Then they would wake to hear the rattle of rain in the streets, the bubbling of unauthorized fountains; and the Professor would shiver with fear lest the reported treasure should be buried, perhaps swept away, in mud; and the Cardinal would fold his beautiful hands over his rosary and pray to be delivered from all undue love of terrestrial things. Giannella, poor child, read over the Princess's letter for the twentieth time, trying to invalidate its solemn, well-worded arguments and failing to quite succeed; and Rinaldo, wide awake too, paced up and down his studio, looked out every few minutes to see if the clouds were not breaking, and called down a monotonous string of curses, all ending with apoplexy, on the heartless elements which were keeping his painted cardinal too moist to pack, and would certainly prevent his seeing Mariuccia in the church next morning to exchange tidings and sympathy.
When he looked down in the gray of the morning, the little court and street beyond were sheeted in water. Three months' heat and drought were being atoned for in the torrential downpour. All over the lower part of the city the sewers were throwing up volumes of muddy liquid choked back from its customary outlets by the rise in the river. On the front porch of San Severino no picket of mendicants was stationed to-day. When Fra Tommaso came down to open the doors not even the privileged cripple was there to lift the curtain for him. The old sacristan stood under the portico and surveyed the street with a troubled face. "Libera nos, Domine!" he murmured as he turned back into the church. "Fiat Voluntus Tua, yes, Lord, but oh, please, of Your Condescension, do not send any dying calls to-day. That time, five years ago, when the big flood came, and the priest and the boy and I—and the Santissimo—Domine Dio, shall I ever forget it?—were almost tipped out of the boat at that corner by the bridge. Oh, not to-day, please, dear Lord. The poor souls could not get to You through the rain—and think of the angels' wings all wet. If any are to die, please let them wait a day or two, and come to judgment dry at least."