His face suddenly became grave, and he contented
himself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,
we shall see them, we shall see them both!"

Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if
serious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a
gesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he
stood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on
which, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly
enlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the fig
tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him
who may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them
either to your servants or your fowls." Then he folded the paper,
fastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: "To his
most Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera." And
when he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath
and once more called back his laugh.

A kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen
him. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt
the need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any
possible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had
induced him to write those four lines without a moment's delay, on the
very spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great
catastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on
leaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into
the letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once
more easy in mind.

"Why, what is the matter with you, my dear Abbe?" he inquired on again
joining in the conversation of the two friends. "You are quite gloomy."
And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the
condemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for
action if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he
began to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order
to continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. "Never mind, never mind,
don't worry yourself," said he, "one loses all one's strength by
worrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.
An hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into
victory!" He grew feverish as he spoke