Beppo (shouts ill-humouredly through the hangings). Bishop of Langres!
Bishop (as he enters). Monseigneur?
(While Beppo seizes the opportunity to steal away from them on tiptoe back to the open window and his birds’-nest. He almost screams with rapture to find that in the fresh air and broad, genial sunshine the nestlings are recovering, faintly stirring, ravenously opening their soft yellow beaks for food. Over them he is soon absorbed, touching them here and there and singing to them one of his many tuneful peasant songs.)
Monseigneur. Bishop of Langres—I have a charge for thee, a sacred charge.—Beppo, my brother.
Bishop. Monseigneur?
Monseigneur. Let him be taught. Only see to it, Bishop, that they do not try to teach him too much. Weary him not with lessons, as they have so often wearied me.
Bishop. And what would Monseigneur have him? A priest?
Monseigneur. I would have him a soldier and a gentleman; a leader of men. Bad times are ahead of us, Bishop, and it is possible—that one day—(he pauses, and then calls.) Beppo! (But Beppo is too absorbed to hear him.)
Bishop (angrily). Beppo! (And Beppo turns, startled, and on the Bishop’s gesture drags himself down to them unwillingly.)