“Alas!  I fear my cattolica will not linger long by me,” said the king.  “A man of his talent and worth cannot content himself with being canon of Breslau.  No, Bastiani, you will, without doubt, rise higher.  You will become a prelate, an eminence; yes, you will, perhaps, wear the tiara.  But what shall I be when you have mounted this glittering pinnacle—­when you have become pope?  I wager you will deny me your apostolic blessing; that you will not even allow me to kneel and kiss your slipper.  If any man should dare to name me to you, you would no longer remember this unselfish love, which, without doubt, you feel passionately for me at this moment.  Ah!  I see you now rising from St. Peter’s chair with apostolic sublimity, and exclaiming with praiseworthy indignation:  ’How! this heretic, this unclean, this savage from hell!  I curse him, I condemn him.  Let no man dare even to name him.’”

“Grace, grace, sire!” cried the abbe, holding his hands humbly, and looking up at the king.

The other gentlemen laughed heartily.  The king was inexorable.  The specious holiness and hypocrisy which the abbe had brought upon the stage incensed him, and he was resolved to punish it.

“Now, if you were pope, and I am convinced you will be, I should, without doubt, go to Rome.  It is very important for me to ascertain, while I have you here, what sort of a reception you would accord me?  So, let us hear.  When I appear before your holiness, what will you say to me?”

The abbe, who had been sitting with downcast eyes, and murmuring from time to time in pleading tones:  “Ah, sire! ah, sire!” now looked up, and a flashing glance fell upon the handsome face of the king, now glowing with mirth.

“Well?” repeated the king, “what would you say to me?”

“Sire,” said Bastiani, bowing reverently, “I would say, ’Almighty eagle, cover me with your wings, and protect me from your own beak.’” [Footnote:  Bastiani’s own words.—­See Thiebault, p. 43.]

“That is an answer worthy of your intellect,” said the king, smiling, “and in consideration of it I will excuse you from relating some little history of your life.—­Now, Duke Algarotti, your time has come.  You are the last, and no doubt you will conclude the evening worthily.”

“Sire, my case is similar to Bastiani’s.  There has been no mystery in my life; only that which seemed miraculous for a priest was entirely natural and simple in my case.  I have travelled a great deal, have seen the world, known men; and all my experience and the feelings and convictions of my heart have at last laid me at the feet of your majesty.  I am like the faithful, who, having been healed by a miracle, hang a copy of the deceased member upon the miraculous image which cured them.  My heart was sick of the world and of men; your majesty healed it, and I lay it thankfully and humbly at your feet.  This is my whole history, and truly it is a wonderful one.  I have found a manly king and a kingly man.” [Footnote:  Algarotti’s own words.]