He's too good to have that sort of trick played on him."
"I thought myself he seemed fairly decent," the Gadfly lazily assented.
"Nonsense, Sandro!
We don't want Cardinals here!" said Domenichino. "And if Monsignor Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he had the chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn't have fooled him."
"He wouldn't take it because he didn't want to leave his work here."
"More likely because he didn't want to get poisoned off by Lambruschini's agents.
They've got something against him, you may depend upon it.
When a Cardinal, especially such a popular one, 'prefers to stay' in a God-forsaken little hole like this, we all know what that means--don't we, Rivarez?"
The Gadfly was making smoke-rings.
"Perhaps it is a c-c-case of a 'b-b-broken and contrite heart,'" he remarked, leaning his head back to watch them float away. "And now, men, let us get to business."
They began to discuss in detail the various plans which had been formed for the smuggling and concealment of weapons.
The Gadfly listened with keen attention, interrupting every now and then to correct sharply some inaccurate statement or imprudent proposal.
When everyone had finished speaking, he made a few practical suggestions, most of which were adopted without discussion.
The meeting then broke up.
It had been resolved that, at least until he was safely back in Tuscany, very late meetings, which might attract the notice of the police, should be avoided.
By a little after ten o'clock all had dispersed except the doctor, the Gadfly, and Domenichino, who remained as a sub-committee for the discussion of special points.
After a long and hot dispute, Domenichino looked up at the clock.
"Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer or the night-watchman may see us."
"When does he pass?" asked the Gadfly.
"About twelve o'clock; and I want to be home before he comes. Good-night, Giordani.
Rivarez, shall we walk together?"
"No; I think we are safer apart.
Then I shall see you again?"
"Yes; at Castel Bolognese.
I don't know yet what disguise I shall be in, but you have the passWord.
You leave here to-morrow, I think?"
The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard and wig before the looking-glass.
"To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims.
On the next day I fall ill and stop behind in a shepherd's hut, and then take a short cut across the hills.
I shall be down there before you will.
Good-night!"
Twelve o'clock was striking from the Cathedral bell-tower as the Gadfly looked in at the door of the great empty barn which had been thrown open as a lodging for the pilgrims.
The floor was covered with clumsy figures, most of which were snoring lustily, and the air was insufferably close and foul.
He drew back with a little shudder of repugnance; it would be useless to attempt to sleep in there; he would take a walk, and then find some shed or haystack which would, at least, be clean and quiet.
It was a glorious night, with a great full moon gleaming in a purple sky.
He began to wander through the streets in an aimless way, brooding miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing that he had never consented to Domenichino's plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella.
If at the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous, some other place would have been chosen; and both he and Montanelli would have been spared this ghastly, ridiculous farce.
How changed the Padre was!
And yet his voice was not changed at all; it was just the same as in the old days, when he used to say: "Carino."
The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at the other end of the street, and the Gadfly turned down a narrow, crooked alley.
After walking a few yards he found himself in the Cathedral Square, close to the left wing of the episcopal palace.
The square was flooded with moonlight, and there was no one in sight; but he noticed that a side door of the Cathedral was ajar.
The sacristan must have forgotten to shut it.
Surely nothing could be going on there so late at night.
He might as well go in and sleep on one of the benches instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in the morning before the sacristan came; and even if anyone did find him, the natural supposition would be that mad Diego had been saying his prayers in some corner, and had got shut in.
He listened a moment at the door, and then entered with the noiseless step that he had retained notwithstanding his lameness.
The moonlight streamed through the windows, and lay in broad bands on the marble floor.
In the chancel, especially, everything was as clearly visible as by daylight.
At the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt alone, bare-headed, with clasped hands.
The Gadfly drew back into the shadow.