Beppo (startled). Dying?
Bishop. Tease him no more, Beppo. Go; make friends with him; comfort him.
Beppo (distressed). Dying? Oh, my Philippe! (So he goes and throws himself on his knees before Monseigneur, huddled up, crying, in the Nurse’s chair.)
Bishop. I shall be here, within earshot, in the oratory. And if I so much as hear thee!⸺Remember! (And disappears through the hangings into the oratory.)
Beppo (gently). Give me thy dagger, Philippe; let us be friends again. So! (as he throws the daggers on the bed.) And if thou wilt, I will cure thee. (Winningly.) Shall I, Philippe?
Monseigneur (feebly). When I am well again, brute, I will knock thy head.
Beppo (soothingly). Thou shalt! Thou shalt! (as he puts his head on Monseigneur’s lap.) Knock it now, if it pleases thee. (Monseigneur gives him a feeble, vindictive little slap.) There! Is that better? Do it again. (Monseigneur pushes him fretfully away.) And now I will cure thee; make thee one day as strong as I. Only thou must obey me. Art ready—to obey me? Thou art still crying, Philippe? Nay, but why?
Monseigneur. To think how I leave my poor Duchy! Defenceless! Ah, if only thou wert my true brother!—if only there were not the bar!
Beppo (laughs). Why, then I might one day be duke. A droll duke; one that would need a deal of washing. Nay, I would not be duke, to be washed every day. (Gravely.) But if duke I ever were—there are things I should know. (With a wise nod.) Ah!
Monseigneur. What things?