“Yes, I admit it. People are such imbeciles that they think it is an honour to have a Cardinal in the family; I take advantage of this stupid idea, although I do not share it, because for me a Cardinal is merely an object of curiosity, an object for an archeological museum....”
Cæsar paused, because the monk’s countenance was growing dark. In the twilight of his pallid face, his nose looked like a comet portending some public calamity.
“Poor wretch!” murmured the monk. “You do not know what you are saying. You are blaspheming. You are offending God.” “Do you really believe that God has any relation to my uncle?” asked Cæsar, paying more attention to his toast than to his visitor.
And then he added:
“The truth is that it would be extravagant behaviour on the part of God.”
The monk looked at Cæsar with terrible eyes. Those grey eyes of his, under their long, black, thick brows, shot lightning.
“Poor wretch!” repeated the monk. “You ought to have more respect for things above you.”
Cæsar arose.
“You are bothering me and preventing me from drinking my coffee,” he said, with exquisite politeness, and touched the bell.
“Be careful!” exclaimed the monk, seizing Cæsar’s arm with violence.