“You talk like an academician,” exclaimed the Conte, laughing; “that was a bold stroke with a vengeance; but it is only once in ten years that one has a chance to do anything so sensational. A creature who is half an idiot, but who keeps a sharp lookout, and acts prudently all his life, often enjoys the pleasure of triumphing over men of imagination. It was by a foolish error of imagination that Napoleon was led to surrender to the prudent John Bull, instead of seeking to conquer America. John Bull, in his countinghouse, had a hearty laugh at his letter in which he quotes Themistocles. In all ages, the base Sancho Panza triumphs, you will find, in the long run, over the sublime Don Quixote. If you are willing to agree to do nothing extraordinary, I have no doubt that you will be a highly respected, if not a highly respectable Bishop. In any case, what I said just now holds good: Your Excellency acted with great levity in the affair of the horse; he was within a finger’s breadth of perpetual imprisonment.”
This statement made Fabrizio shudder. He remained plunged in a profound astonishment. “Was that,” he wondered, “the prison with which I am threatened? Is that the crime which I was not to commit?” The predictions of Blanès, which as prophecies he utterly derided, assumed in his eyes all the importance of authentic forecasts.
“Why, what is the matter with you?” the Duchessa asked him, in surprise; “the Conte has plunged you in a sea of dark thoughts.”
“I am illuminated by a new truth, and, instead of revolting against it, my mind adopts it. It is true, I passed very near to an endless imprisonment! But that footman looked so nice in his English jacket! It would have been such a pity to kill him!”
The Minister was enchanted with his little air of wisdom.
“He is excellent in every respect,” he said, with his eyes on the Duchessa. “I may tell you, my friend, that you have made a conquest, and one that is perhaps the most desirable of all.”
“Ah!” thought Fabrizio, “now for some joke about little Marietta.” He was mistaken; the Conte went on to say:
“Your Gospel simplicity has won the heart of our venerable Archbishop, Father Landriani. One of these days we are going to make a Grand Vicar of you, and the charming part of the whole joke is that the three existing Grand Vicars, all most deserving men, workers, two of whom, I fancy, were Grand Vicars before you were born, will demand, in a finely worded letter addressed to their Archbishop, that you shall rank first among them. These gentlemen base their plea in the first place upon your virtues, and also upon the fact that you are the great-nephew of the famous Archbishop Ascanio del Dongo. When I learned the respect that they felt for your virtues, I immediately made the senior Vicar General’s nephew a captain; he had been a lieutenant ever since the siege of Tarragona by Marshal Suchet.”
“Go right away now, dressed as you are, and pay a friendly visit to your Archbishop!” exclaimed the Duchessa. “Tell him about your sister’s wedding; when he hears that she is to be a Duchessa, he will think you more apostolic than ever. But, remember, you know nothing of what the Conte has just told you about your future promotion.”
Fabrizio hastened to the archiepiscopal palace; there he showed himself simple and modest, a tone which he assumed only too easily; whereas it required an effort for him to play the great gentleman. As he listened to the somewhat prolix stories of Monsignor Landriani, he was saying to himself: “Ought I to have fired my pistol at the footman who was leading the thin horse?” His reason said to him: “Yes,” but his heart could not accustom itself to the bleeding image of the handsome young man, falling from his horse, all disfigured.
“That prison in which I should have been swallowed up, if the horse had stumbled, was that the prison with which I was threatened by all those forecasts?”
This question was of the utmost importance to him, and the Archbishop was gratified by his air of profound attention.
XI
On leaving the Archbishop’s Palace, Fabrizio hastened to see little Marietta; he could hear from the street the loud voice of Giletti who had sent out for wine and was regaling himself with his friends the prompter and the candle-snuffers. The mammaccia, who played the part of mother, came alone in answer to his signal.
“A lot has happened since you were here,” she cried; “two or three of our actors are accused of having celebrated the great Napoleon’s festa with an orgy, and our poor company, which they say is Jacobin, has been ordered to leave the States of Parma, and evviva Napoleone! But the Minister has had a finger in that pie, they say. One thing certain is that Giletti has got money, I don’t know how much, but I’ve seen him with a fistful of scudi. Marietta has had five scudi from our manager to pay for the journey to Mantua and Venice, and I have had one. She is still in love with you, but Giletti frightens her; three days ago, at the last performance we gave, he absolutely wanted to kill her; he dealt her two proper blows, and, what was abominable of him, tore her blue shawl. If you would care to give her a blue shawl, you would be a very good boy, and
