There is a scale in the meaning of the word socialist.  In France it means about the same thing as a communist, when one uses plain language.  When one uses the language of Monsieur Dramont, it means a Jew.  In England a socialist is equal to a French conservative republican.  In America it means a thief.  In Germany it means an ingenious individual of restricted financial resources, who generally fails to blow up some important personage with wet dynamite.  In Italy a socialist is an anarchist pure and simple, who wishes to destroy everything existing for the sake of dividing a wealth which does not exist at all.  It also means a young man who orders a glass of water and a toothpick at a cafe, and is able to talk politics for a considerable time on this slender nourishment.  Signor Succi and Signor Merlatti have discovered nothing new.  Their miracles of fasting may be observed by the curious at any time in a Roman cafe.

Don Paolo regarded the mere idea of an alliance with Gasparo Carnesecchi as an outrage upon common sense, and when he entered Marzio’s workshop he was determined to say so.  Marzio looked up with an air of inquiry, and Gianbattista foresaw what was coming.  He nodded to the priest, and brought forward the old straw chair from the corner; then he returned to his work in silence.

“You will have guessed my errand,” Don Paolo began, by way of introducing his subject.

“No,” answered Marzio doggedly.  “Something about the crucifix, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” returned the priest, folding his hands over the handle of his umbrella.  “A much more delicate matter.  You suggested last night an improbable scheme for marrying Lucia.”

“You had better say that I told you plainly what I mean to do.  If you have come to talk about that, you had better talk to the workmen outside.  They may answer you.  I will not!”

Don Paolo was not to be so easily put off.  He waited a moment as though to give Marzio time to change his mind, and then proceeded.

“There are three reasons why this marriage will not take place,” he said.  “In the first place, it is wrong—­that is my point of view.  In the second place, it is impossible—­and that is the view the law takes of it.  Thirdly, it will not take place because you will not attempt to push it.  What do you say of my reasons, Marzio?”

“They are worthy of you,” answered the artist.  “In the first place, I do not care a fig for what you think is wrong, or right either.  Secondly, I will take the law into my own hands.  Thirdly, I will bring it about and finish it in a fortnight; and fourthly, you may go to the devil!  What do you think of my reasons, Paolo?  They are better than yours, and much more likely to prevail.”

“My dear Marzio,” returned the priest quietly, “you may say anything you please, I believe, in these days of liberty.  But the law will not permit you to act upon your words.  If you can persuade your daughter to marry Gasparo Carnesecchi of her own free will, well and good.  If you cannot, there is a statute, I am quite sure, which forbids your dragging her up the steps of the Capitol, and making her sign her name by force or violence in the presence of the authorities.  You may take my word for it; and so you had better dismiss the matter from your mind at once, and think no more about it.”