sket which had travelled in
Prada's carriage, she said: "Ah! I don't care for those figs at all now,
I am even glad that I haven't eaten any of them."

Immediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was
at once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves,
lingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The
priest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience
which he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o'clock, and he
had seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless
afternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. "I'll
tell you what," said she, "as we are all in such good spirits we mustn't
leave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have
finished lunch by now, and I'll ask him to take us for a long drive along
the Tiber."

This fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but
just then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. "Isn't the
Princess here?" he inquired.

"No, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?"

"His Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from
table. Oh! it's nothing--nothing serious, no doubt."

Benedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: "What, Dario!
Well, we'll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe. He mustn't get
ill if he is to take us for a drive!" Then, meeting Victorine on the
stairs, she bade her follow. "Dario isn't well," she said. "You may be
wanted."

They all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished
bed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole
month. It was reached by way of a small _salon_, and from an adjoining
dressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal's apartments, the
relatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised
by subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the
passage gave access to his Eminence's private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted,
chairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar,
and the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.

On entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still
fully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera,
who, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty
bearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. "Why, what is the
matter, Dario _mio_?" asked the youn