Cosimo fell back before him limp and trembling, his spirit broken by this shattering blow.
And then Gonzaga uttered words that might have heartened him. But after being hurled from what he accounted the pinnacle of success, he mistrusted now the crafty Lieutenant, saw that he had been played with as a mouse by this Imperial cat with the soft, deadly paws.
“We might waive the formalities in the interests of justice,” purred the Lieutenant. “There is this memorial, my lord,” he said, and tapped the document, his eyes upon my father.
“Since your excellency wishes the matter to be disposed of out of hand, it can, I think, be done,” he said, and he looked again at Cosimo.
“You have said that this memorial is false, because the witnesses whose names are here cannot be admitted to testify.”
Cosimo braced himself for a last effort. “Do you defy the Pope?” he thundered.
“If necessary,” was the answer. “I have done so all my life.”
Cosimo turned to Gonzaga. “It is not I who have branded this memorial false,” he said, “but the Holy Father himself.”
“The Emperor,” said my father, “may opine that in this matter the Holy Father has been deluded by liars. There are other witnesses. There is myself, for one. This memorial contains nothing but what was imparted to me by the Lord of Pagliano on his death-bed, in the presence of his confessor.”
“We cannot admit the confessor,” Gonzaga thrust in.