“Macché!” exclaimed the indignant Preciozi, neglecting the culinary conflict he was engaged in.
“All right. It makes no difference,” replied Cæsar, smiling. “Whether he is a famous man, as you two say, or a blockhead, as I think, the fact remains that my uncle doesn’t wish to have anything to do with me.”
“You must have done something to him,” said Cittadella.
“No; the only thing is that when I was small they told me the Cardinal wished me to be a priest, and I answered that I didn’t care to be.”
“And why so?”
“It seems to me a poor job. It’s evident that one doesn’t make much at it.”
Cittadella sighed.
“Yes, and what’s more,” Preciozi put in, “this gentleman says to anybody who cares to listen, that religion is a farce, that Catholicism is like a dish of Jewish meat with Roman sauce. Is it possible that a Cardinal should bother about a nephew that talks like that?”
The Abbé Cittadella looked very serious and remarked that it is necessary to believe, or at least to seem to believe, in the truths of religion.
“Is the Cardinal supposed to have money?” asked Cæsar.