But when the first impression was gone, and Paolo was walking quickly in the direction of the palace where the Cardinal lived, he stoutly denied to himself that Marzio had meant to harm him.  In the first place, he could find no adequate reason for such an attempt upon his life.  It was true that his relations with his brother had not been very amicable for some time; but between quarrelling and doing murder, Paolo saw a gulf too wide to be easily overstepped, even by such a person as Marzio.  Then, too, the good man was unwilling to suspect any one of bad intentions, still less of meditating a crime.  This consideration, however, was not, logically speaking, in Marzio’s favour; for since Paolo was less suspicious than other men, it must necessarily have needed a severe shock to shake his faith in his brother’s innocence.  He had seem the weapon in the air, and had seen also the murderous look in the artist’s eyes.

“I had better not think anything more about it,” he said to himself, fearing lest he should think anything unjust.

So he went on his way towards the palace, and tried to think about Gianbattista and Lucia, their marriage and their future life.  The two young faces came up before him as he walked, and he smiled calmly, forgetting what he had so recently passed through, in the pleasant contemplation of a happiness not his own.  He reached his rooms, high up at the top of the ancient building, and he sighed with a sense of relief as he sat down upon the battered old chair before his writing-table.

Presently the Cardinal sent for him.  Don Paolo rose and carefully brushed the dust from his cassock and mantle, and smoothed the long silk nap of his hat.  He was a very neat man and scrupulous as to his appearance.  Moreover, he regarded the Cardinal with a certain awe, as being far removed beyond the sphere of ordinary humanity, even though he had known him intimately for years.  This idea of the great importance of the princes of the Church is inherent in the Roman mind.  There is no particular reason why it should be eradicated, since it exists, and does no harm to any one, but it is a singular fact and worthy of remark.  It is one of those many relics of old times, which no amount of outward change has been able to obliterate.  A cardinal in Rome occupies a position wholly distinct from that of any other dignitary or hereditary noble.  It is not so elsewhere, except perhaps in some parts of the south.  The Piedmontese scoffs at cardinals, because he scoffs at the church and at all religion in general.  The Florentine shrugs his shoulders because cardinals represent Rome, and Rome, with all that is in it, is hateful to Florence, and always was.  But the true Roman, even when he has adopted the ideas of the new school, still feels an unaccountable reverence for the scarlet mantle.  There is a dignity—­often, now, very far from magnificent—­about the household of a cardinal, which is not found elsewhere.  The servants are more grave and tread more softly, the rooms are darker and more severe, the atmosphere is more still and the silence more intense, than in the houses of lay princes.  A man feels in the very air the presence of a far-reaching power, noiselessly working to produce great results.