He laughed softly at his grim joke, and bent lower over the crucifix.  By this time he had determined what to do, for his reflections had not interfered with his occupation.  Removing two tiny silver screws which fitted with the utmost exactness in the threads, he loosened the figure from the cross, removed the latter to a shelf on the wall, and returning laid the statue on a soft leathern pad, surrounding it with sand-bags till it was propped securely in the position he required.  Then he took a very small chisel, adjusted it with the greatest care, and tapped upon it with the round wooden handle of his little hammer.  At each touch he examined the surface with his lens to assure himself that he was making the improvement he contemplated.  It was very delicate work, and as he did it he felt a certain pride in the reflection that he could not have detected the place where improvement was possible when he had worked upon the piece ten years ago.  He found it now, in the infinitesimal touches upon the expression of the face, in the minute increase in the depressions and accentuated lines in the anatomy of the figure.  As he went over each portion he became more and more certain that though he could not at present do better in the way of idea and general execution, he had nevertheless gained in subtle knowledge of effects and in skill of handling the chisel upon very delicate points.  The certainty gave him the real satisfaction of legitimate pride.  He knew that he had reached the zenith of his capacities.  His old wish to keep the crucifix for himself began to return.

If he disposed of Paolo he might keep his work.  Only Paolo had seen it.  The absurd want of logic in the conclusion did not strike him.  He had not pledged himself to his brother to give this particular crucifix to the Cardinal, and if he had, he could easily have found a reason for keeping it back.  But he was too much accustomed to think that Paolo was always in the way of his wishes, to look at so simple a matter in such a simple light.

“It is strange,” he said to himself.  “The smallest things seem to point to it.  If he would only come!”

Again his mind returned to the contemplation of the deed, and again he reviewed all the circumstances necessary for its safe execution.  What an inspiration, he thought, and what a pity it had not found shape in fact at the very moment when it had presented itself!  He considered why he had never thought of it before, in all the years, as a means of freeing himself effectually from the despotism he detested.  It was a despotism, he reflected, and no other word expressed it.  He recalled many scenes in his home, in which Paolo had interfered.  He remembered how one Sunday, in the afternoon, they had all been together before going to walk in the Corso, and how he had undertaken to demonstrate to Maria Luisa and Lucia the folly of wasting time in going to church on Sundays.  He had argued gently and reasonably, he thought.