And then there would have been no more Paolo, no more domestic annoyances, no more of the priest’s smooth-faced disapprobation and perpetual opposition in the house.  He would have soon brought Maria Luisa and Lucia to reason.  What could they do without the support of Paolo?  They were only women after all.  As for Gianbattista, if once the poisonous influence of Paolo were removed—­and how surely removed!—­Marzio’s lips twisted as though he were tasting the sourness of failure, like an acid fruit—­if once the priest were gone, Gianbattista would come back to his old ways, to his old scorn of priests in general, of churches, of oppression, of everything that Marzio hated.  He might marry Lucia then, and be welcome.  After all, he was a finer fellow for the pretty girl than Gasparo Carnesecchi, with his claw fingers and his vinegar salad.  That was only a farce, that proposal about the lawyer—­the real thing was to get rid of Paolo.  There could be no healthy liberty of thought in the house while this fellow was sneaking in and out at all hours.  Tumble Paolo into a quiet grave—­into the river with a sackful of old castings at his neck—­there would be peace then, and freedom.  Marzio ground his teeth as he thought how nearly he had done the thing, and how miserably he had failed.  It had been the inspiration of the moment, and the details had appeared clear at once to his mind.  Going over them he found that he had not been mistaken.  If Paolo came again, and he had the chance, he would do it.  It was perhaps all the better that he had found time to weigh the matter.

But would Paolo come again?  Would he ever trust himself alone in the workshop?  Had he guessed, when he turned so suddenly and saw the weapon in the air, that the blow was on the very point of descending?  Or had he been deceived by the clumsy excuse Marzio had made about the sum shining in his eyes?

He had remained calm, or Marzio tried to think so.  But the artist himself had been so much moved during the minutes that followed that he could hardly feel sure of Paolo’s behaviour.  It was a chilling thought, that Paolo might have understood and might have gone away feeling that his life had been saved almost by a miracle.  He would not come back, the cunning priest, in that case; he would not risk his precious skin in such company.  It was not to be expected—­a priest was only human, after all, like any other man.  Marzio cursed his ill luck again as he bent over his work.  What a moment this would be if Paolo would take it into his head to make another visit!  Even the men were gone.  He would send the one boy who remained to the church where Gianbattista was working, with a message.  They would be alone then, he and Paolo.  The priest might scream and call for help—­the thick walls would not let any sound through them.  It would be even better than in the morning, when he had lost his opportunity by a moment, by the twinkling of an eye.

“They say hell is paved with good intentions—­or lost opportunities,” muttered Marzio.  “I will send Paolo with the next opportunity to help in the paving.”