“This cross was laid upon my breast when I was yet a boy,” gloomily responded the cardinal; “the fetters were attached to me before I had the strength to rend them; my will was not asked when this stone was laid upon my breast!  Now I ask not about your will when I seek, under this weight, to breathe freely as a man!  And, thank God, this weight has not crushed my heart—­my heart, that yet glows with youthful freshness, and in which love has found a lurking-hole which your cross cannot fill up.  And in this lurking-hole now dwells a charming, a wonderful woman, whom Rome calls the queen of song, and whom I call the queen of beauty and love!  All the world adjudges her the crown of poesy, and only you refuse it to her.”

“Again this old complaint!” said the pope, with a slight contraction of his brow.  “You again speak of her—­”

“Of Corilla,” interposed the cardinal—­“yes of Corilla I speak, of that heavenly woman whom all the world admires; to whose beautiful verses philosophers and poets listen with breathless delight, and who well deserves that you should reward her as a queen by bestowing upon her the poetic crown!”

“I crown a Corilla!” mockingly exclaimed the pope.  “Shall a Corilla desecrate the spot hallowed by the feet of Tasso and Petrarch?  No, I say, no; when art becomes the plaything of a courtesan, then may the sacred Muses veil their heads and mourn in silence, but they must not degrade themselves by throwing away the crown which the best and noblest would give their heart’s blood to obtain.  This Corilla may bribe you poor earthly fools with her smiles and amorous verses, but she will not be able to deceive the Muses!”

“You refuse me, then, the crowning of the renowned improvisatrice Corilla?” asked the cardinal, with painfully suppressed rage.

“I refuse it!”

“And why, then, did you send for me?” exclaimed the cardinal with vehemence.  “Was it merely to mock me?”

“It was for the purpose of warning you, my son!” mildly responded the pope.  “For even the greatest forbearance must at length come to an end; and when I am compelled to forget that you are Alessandro Albani’s nephew, I shall then only have to remember that you are the criminal Francesco Albani, whom all the world condemns, and whom I must judge!  Repent and reform, my son, while there is yet time; and, above all things, renounce this love, which heaps new disgrace upon your family and overwhelms your relatives with sorrow and anxiety!”

“Renounce Corilla!” cried the cardinal.  “I tell you I love her, I adore her, this heavenly, beautiful woman!  How can you ask me to renounce her?”

“Nevertheless I do demand it,” said the pope with solemnity, “demand it in the name of your father, in the name of God, against whose holy laws you have sinned—­you, His consecrated priest.”

“But that is an impossibility!” passionately exclaimed Francesco.  “One must bear a heart of stone in his bosom to require it; and that you can do so only proves that you have never known what it is to love!”