“On the contrary,” said the priest, “I think I understand it very well—­as well as an outsider can understand such a process.  No—­I merely look at the finished work.  It is superb, Marzio—­magnificent!  I have never seen anything like it.”

“Well, you may have it to-night,” said Marzio, turning away, and walking about the room.  “I will touch it over.  I can improve it a little.  I have learned something in ten years.  I will work all to-day, and I will bring it home this evening to show Maria Luisa.  Then you may take it away.”

“And the price?  I must be able to tell the Cardinal.”

“Oh, never mind the price.  I will be content to take whatever he gives me, since it is going.  No price would represent the labour.  Indeed, Paolo, if it were any one but you, I would not let it go.  Nothing but my affection for you would make me give it to you.  It is the gem of my studio.  Ah, how I worked at it ten years ago!”

“Thank you.  I think I understand,” answered the priest.  “I am very much obliged to you, Marzio, and I assure you it will be appreciated.  I must be going.  Thank you for showing it to me.  I will come and get it to-night.”

“Well, good-bye, Paolo,” said Marzio.  “Here is your umbrella.”

As Don Paolo turned away to leave the room, the artist looked curiously at the tonsure on his head, and his eyes followed it until Paolo had covered it with his hat.  Then he closed the door and went back to the bench.

CHAPTER VIII

Lucia hastened homewards with the good news she bore.  Her young nature was elastic, and, in the sudden happiness of having secured Gianbattista’s recall, she quickly recovered from the shock she had received.  She did not reflect very much, for she had not the time.  It had all happened so quickly that her senses were confused, and she only knew that the man she loved must be in despair, and that the sooner she reached him the sooner she would be able to relieve him from what he must be suffering.  Her breath came fast as she reached the top of the stairs, and she panted as she rang the bell of the lodging.  Apparently she had rung so loud in her excitement as to rouse the suspicions of old Assunta, who cautiously peered through the little square that opened behind a grating in the door, before she raised the latch.  On seeing Lucia she began to laugh, and opened quickly.

“So loud!” chuckled the old thing.  “I thought it was the police or Sor Marzio in a rage.”

Lucia did not heed her, but ran quickly on to the sitting-room, where the Signora Pandolfi was alone, seated on her straight chair and holding her bonnet in her hand, the bonnet with the purple glass grapes; she was the picture of despair.  Lucia made haste to comfort her.