Bishop. You would like to do something for him? How shall I say? Assure his future? (On Monseigneur’s silence.) You understand what I mean, by assuring Beppo’s future?
Monseigneur. Of course! It means seeing that he has always somewhere to sleep, that he does not go so often hungry, and, in the winter, fireless; that he keeps himself clean. The difficulty will be to make him accept. (Smiles.) He is such a vagabond.
Bishop. Hitherto, no one has shown him any care.
Monseigneur. And yet—he is my brother.
Bishop (while the Doctor, who is listening, starts). Monseigneur! You knew? But how? Since when?
Monseigneur. Since one day—a long time ago—when I was quite a child, and my father and my mother were quarrelling.
Bishop. So?
Monseigneur. It seems, Messire, that when people quarrel—even before their own children—they will tell each other unpleasant truths.
Bishop (nods, gravely). Sometimes.
Monseigneur. So it was that my mother told my father he ought to be ashamed of himself. He had so many little bastards.