Beppo. About the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the old. It does not matter so much for me; I am young and can bear it. But the old!—To be old is dreadful; but to be old and hungry, in autumn without a roof, without a fire in winter! If I were duke, Philippe, dost thou know what I would do? (As Monseigneur, lying back in the chair, feebly shakes his head.) In winter I would have all the old people here to live with me in the palace; feed them, and keep them warm.
Monseigneur. Ah? And in summer?
Beppo. They should come here, too, and rest all day in the shade of the corridors, to keep them cool. And I would go about among them and fulfil all their wants, and make them laugh with my antics and gay stories. Not pity them! The poor do not like to be pitied.
Monseigneur (wearily). Thou art very ignorant, Beppo.
Beppo. It is possible. Yet there are things I know one cannot learn from books. And of book-learning, Philippe, it seems to me that thou hast had too much.
Monseigneur. How can one have too much, if one is one day to be duke?
Beppo (laughs). Nay!
Monseigneur. Call me the Bishop, Beppo.
Beppo (troubled). The Bishop? But why?
Monseigneur (fretfully). Call him. (So Beppo rises, grumbling and muttering, and goes to the oratory doorway.)