But suddenly Paolo had interrupted him, saying that he would not allow Marzio to compare a church to a circus, nor priests to mountebanks and tight-rope dancers.  Why not?  Then the women had begun to scream and cry, and to talk of his blasphemous language until he could not hear himself speak.  It was Paolo’s fault.  If Paolo had not been there the women would have listened patiently enough, and would doubtless have reaped some good from his reasonable discourse.  On another occasion Marzio had declared that Lucia should never be taught anything about Christianity, that the definition of God was reason, that Garibaldi had baptized one child in the name of Reason and that he, Marzio, could baptize another quite as effectually.  Paolo had interfered, and Maria Luisa had screamed.  The contest had lasted nearly a month, at the end of which tune, Marzio had been obliged to abandon the uneven contest, vowing vengeance in some shape for the future.

Many and many such scenes rose to his memory, and in every one Paolo was the opposer, the enemy of his peace, the champion of all that he hated and despised.  In great things and small his brother had been his antagonist from his early manhood, through eighteen years of married life to the present day.  And yet, without Paolo, he could hardly have hoped to find himself in his present state of fortune.

This was one of the chief sources of his humiliation in his own eyes.  With such a character as his, it is eminently true that it is harder to forgive a benefit than an injury.  He might have felt less bitterly against his brother if he had not received at his hands the orders and commissions which had turned into solid money in the bank.  It was hard to face Paolo, knowing that he owed two-thirds of his fortune to such a source.  If he could get rid of the priest he would be relieved at once from the burden of this annoyance, of this financial subjection, as well of all that embittered his life.  He pictured to himself his wife and daughter listening respectfully to his harangues and beginning to practise his principles, Gianbattista, an eloquent member of the society in the inner room of the old inn, reformed, purged from his sneaking fondness for Paolo—­since Paolo would not be in the world any longer—­and ultimately married to Lucia, the father of children who should all be baptized in the name of Reason, and the worthy successor of himself, Marzio Pandolfi.

Scrutinising the statue under his lens, he detected a slight imperfection in the place where one of the sharp thorns touched the silver forehead of the beautiful, tortured head.  He looked about for a tool fine enough for the work, but none suited his wants.  He took up the long fine-pointed punch he had thrown back upon the table after the scene in the morning.  It was too long, and over sharp, but by turning it sideways it would do the work under his dexterous fingers.

“Strange!” he muttered, as he tapped upon the tool.  “It is like a consecration!”