ests 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