The priest did not indeed think that Gianbattista was altogether good enough for Lucia.  The boy was occasionally a little wild in his speech, and though he was too much in awe of Don Paolo to repeat before him any of the opinions he had learned from his master, his manner showed occasionally that he was inclined to take the side of the latter in most questions that arose.  But the habit of controlling his feelings in order not to offend the man of the church, and especially in order not to hurt Lucia’s sensitive nature, had begun gradually to change and modify the young man’s character.  From having been a devoted admirer of Marzio’s political creed and extreme free thought, Gianbattista had fallen, into the way of asking questions of the chiseller, to see how he would answer them; and the answers had not always satisfied him.  Side by side with his increasing skill in his art, which led him to compare himself with his teacher, there had grown up in the apprentice the habit of comparing himself with Marzio from the intellectual point of view as well as from the artistic.  The comparison did not appear to him advantageous to the elder man, as he discovered, in his way of thinking, a lack of logic on the one hand, and a love of frantic exaggeration on the other, which tended to throw a doubt upon the whole system of ideas which had produced these defects.  The result was that the young man’s mental position was unbalanced, and he was inclined to return to a more normal condition of thought.  Don Paolo did not know all this, but he saw that Gianbattista had grown more quiet during the last year, and he hoped that his marriage with Lucia would complete the change.  To see her thrown into the arms of a man like Gasparo Carnesecchi was more than the priest’s affection for his niece could bear.  He hardly believed that Marzio would seriously think again of the scheme, and he entertained a hope that the subject would not even be broached for some time to come.

Marzio continued to draw in silence, and after a few minutes, Don Paolo rose to take his leave.  The chiseller did not look up from his pencil.

“Good-night, Marzio—­let it be a good piece of work,” said Paolo.

“Good-night,” growled the artist, his eyes still fixed on the paper.  His brother saluted the rest and left the room to go home to his lonely lodgings at the top of an old palace, in the first floor of which dwelt the Cardinal, whom he served as secretary.  When he was gone, Lucia rose silently and went to her room, leaving her father and mother with Gianbattista.  The Signora Pandolfi hesitated as to whether she should follow her daughter or stay with the two men.  Her woman’s nature feared further trouble, and visions of drawn knives rose before her swollen eyes, so that, after making as though she would rise twice, she finally remained in her seat, her fat hands resting idly upon her knees, staring at her husband and Gianbattista.  The latter sat gloomily watching the paper on which his master was drawing.