“That is well.”

The door was again shut, and Calabressa resumed his seat.

“Brother Lind,” said he, in a low voice, though he leaned back in his chair, and still preserved that gay manner, “I suppose you do not know why you have been summoned?”

“Not I.”

“Bien. But suppose one were to guess?  Suppose there is a gentleman somewhere about who has been carrying his outraging of one’s common notions of decency just a little too far?  Suppose it is necessary to make an example?  You may be noble, and have great wealth, and honor, and smiles from beautiful women; but if some night you find a little bit of steel getting into your heart, or if some morning you find your coffee as you drink it burn all the way down until you can feel it burn no more—­what then?  You must bid good-bye to your mistresses, and to your gold plates and feasts, and your fountains spouting perfumes, and all your titles; is not that so?”

“But who is it?” said Lind, suddenly bending forward.

The other regarded him for a moment, playfully.

“What if I were to mention the ‘Starving Cardinal?’”

“Zaccatelli!” exclaimed Lind, with a ghastly pallor appearing for a moment in the powerful iron-gray face.

Calabressa only laughed.

“Oh yes, it is beautiful to have all these fine things.  And the unhappy devils who are forced to pawn their last sticks of furniture at the Monte di Pieta, rather than have their children starve when bread is dear; how it must gratify them to think of his Eminence seizing the funds of that flourishing institution to buy up the whole of the grain in the Papal States!  What an admirable speculation!  How kind to the poor, on the part of the Secretary to the Vicar of Christ!  What!—­do you think because I am a cardinal I am not to make a profit in corn?  I tell you those people have no business to be miserable—­they have no business to go and pawn their things; if I am allowed to speculate with the funds, why not? Allons donc!—­It is a devilish fine world, merry gentlemen!”

“But—­but why have they summoned me?” Lind said, in the same low voice.

“Who knows?” said the other, lightly.  “I do not.  Come, tell me more about the little Natalushka.  Ah, do I not remember the little minx, when she came in, after dinner, among all those men, with her ’Eljen a haza!’ What has she grown to? what has she become?”

“Natalie is a good girl,” said her father; but he was thinking of other things.

“Beautiful?”

“Some would say so.”

“But not like the English young ladies?”

“Not at all.”

“I thought not.  I remember the black-eyed little one—­with her pride in Batthyany, and her hatred in Gorgey, and all the rest of it.  The little Empress!—­with her proud eyes, and her black eyelashes.  Do you remember at Dunkirk, when old Anton Pepczinski met her for the first time? ’Little Natalushka, if I wait for you, will you marry me when you grow up?” Then the quick answer, “I am not to be called any longer by my nursery name; but if you will fight for my country, I will marry you when I grow up.’”