Both speakers had grown a little pale.
'I have nothing to do with the Italy of Venti Settembre,' said the priest, twisting and untwisting his long fingers in a nervous passion. 'That Italy has three marks of distinction before Europe—by which you may know her.'
'And those—?' said the Contessa, calm and challenging.
'Debt, Eccellenza—hunger!—crimes of blood! Sono il suo primato—l'unico!'
He threw at her a look sparkling and venomous. All the grace of his youth had vanished. As he sat there, Eleanor in a flash saw in him the conspirator and the firebrand that a few more years would make of him.
'Ah!' said the Contessa, flushing. 'There were none of these things in the old Papal States?—under the Bourbons?—the Austrians? Well—we understand perfectly that you would destroy us if you could!'
'Eccellenza, Jesus Christ and his Vicar come before the House of Savoy!'
'Ruin us, and see what you will gain!'
'Eccellenza, the Lord rules.
'Well—well. Break the eggs—that's easy. But whether the omelet will be as the Jesuits please—that's another affair.'