Fra Felice smiled. “They care nothing for me on Sunday and Monday, when there has just been a drawing,” he said. “But they come on Thursday and Friday and on Saturday morning, because there is a drawing every Saturday.”
Donna Elisa began to be anxious, because the dying man thought of nothing but that. Suddenly there flashed across her memory thoughts of one and another who had lost in the lottery, and she remembered several who had played away all their prosperity. She wished to turn his thoughts from that sinful lottery business.
“You said that you wished to speak of your will, Fra Felice.”
“But it is because I have so many friends that it is hard for me to know to whom I shall give the legacy. Shall I give it to those who have baked sweet cakes for me, or to those who have offered me artichokes, browned in sweet oil? Or shall I bequeath it to the sisters of charity who nursed me when I was ill?”
“Have you much to give away, Fra Felice?”
“It will do, Donna Elisa. It will do.”
Fra Felice seemed to be worse again; he lay silent with panting breast.
“I had also wished to give it to all poor, homeless monks, who had lost their monasteries,” he whispered.
And then after thinking for a while: “I should also have liked to give it to the good old man in Rome. He, you know, who watches over us all.”
“Are you so rich, Fra Felice?” said Donna Elisa.