“I am glad you are willing to look into the matter,” answered Don Paolo.  “I am quite sure you will soon be convinced.”

Marzio was silent, and it was evident that the interview was at an end.  Don Paolo was tolerably well satisfied, for he had gained at least one point in forcing his brother to examine the question.  He remained a moment in his seat, reviewing the situation, and asking himself whether there was anything more to be said.  He wished indeed that he could produce some deeper impression on the artist.  It was not enough, from the moral point of view, that Marzio should be made to see the impossibility of his scheme, although it was as much as could be expected.  The good man wished with all his heart that Marzio could be softened a little, that he might be made to consider his daughter’s feelings, to betray some sign of an affection which seemed wholly dead, to show some more human side of his character.  But the situation at present forbade Don Paolo from making any further effort.  The presence of Gianbattista, who had suddenly constituted himself the priest’s defender, was a constraint.  Alone with his brother, Marzio might possibly have exhibited some sensibility, but while the young man who had violently silenced him a few moments earlier was looking on, the chiseller would continue to be angry, and would not forget the humiliation he had suffered.  There was nothing more to be done at present, and Don Paolo prepared to take his departure, gathering his cloak around him, and smoothing the felt of his three-cornered hat while he held his green umbrella under his arm.

“Are you going already, Don Paolo?” asked Gianbattista, rising to open the door.

“Yes, I must go.  Good-bye, Marzio.  Bear me no ill-will for pressing you to be cautious.  Good-bye, Tista.”  He pressed the young man’s hand warmly, as though to thank him for his courageous defence, and then left the workshop.  Marzio paid no attention to his departure.  When the door was closed, and as Gianbattista was returning to his bench, the artist dropped his modelling tools and faced his apprentice.

“You may go too,” he said in a low tone, as though he were choking.  “I mean you may go for good.  I do not need you any longer.”

He felt in his pocket for his purse, opened it, and took out some small notes.

“I give you an hour to take your things from my house,” he continued.  “There are your wages—­you shall not tell the priest that I cheated you.”

Gianbattista stood still in the middle of the room while Marzio held out the money to him.  A hot flush rose to his young forehead, and he seemed on the point of speaking, but the words did not pass his lips.  With a quick step he came forward, took the notes from Marzio’s hand, and crumpling them in his fingers, threw them in his face with all his might.  Then he turned on his heel, spat on the floor of the room, and went out before Marzio could find words to resent the fresh insult.