The company shook with laughter at this direct and offensive hit. But my Lord Gambara seemed nowise incensed. Indeed, I was beginning to conclude that the man had a sweetness and tolerance of nature that bordered on the saintly.
He sipped his wine thoughtfully, and held it up to the light so that the deep ruby of it sparkled in the Venetian crystal.
“You remind me that I have written a new song,” said he.
“Then have I sinned indeed,” groaned Caro.
But Gambara, disregarding the interruption, his glass still raised, his mild eyes upon the wine, began to recite:
“Bacchus saepe visitans
Mulierum genus
Facit eas subditas
Tibi, O tu Venus!”
Without completely understanding it, yet scandalized beyond measure at as much as I understood, to hear such sentiments upon his priestly lips, I stared at him in candid horror.
But he got no farther. Caro smote the table with his fist.
“When wrote you that, my lord?” he cried.
“When?” quoth the Cardinal, frowning at the interruption. “Why, yestereve.”