eserved similar muteness, and immobility. But the Cardinal
had reverted to that instinctive, lulling tramp by which he apparently
hoped to quiet his impatience and arrive the sooner at the explanation
for which he was groping through a tumultuous maze of ideas. And whilst
his rhythmical footsteps resounded with mechanical regularity, dark fury
was taking possession of his mind, exasperation at being unable to
understand the why and wherefore of that sickness. As he passed the table
he had twice glanced at the things lying on it in confusion, as if
seeking some explanation from them. Perhaps the harm had been done by
that unfinished coffee, or by that bread whose crumbs lay here and there,
or by those cutlets, a bone of which remained? Then as for the third time
he passed by, again glancing, his eyes fell upon the basket of figs, and
at once he stopped, as if beneath the shock of a revelation. An idea
seized upon him and mastered him, without any plan, however, occurring to
him by which he might change his sudden suspicion into certainty. For a
moment he remained puzzled with his eyes fixed upon the basket. Then he
took a fig and examined it, but, noticing nothing strange, was about to
put it back when Tata, the parrot, who was very fond of figs, raised a
strident cry. And this was like a ray of light; the means of changing
suspicion into certainty was found.

Slowly, with grave air and gloomy visage, the Cardinal carried the fig to
the parrot and gave it to her without hesitation or regret. She was a
very pretty bird, the only being of the lower order of creation to which
he had ever really been attached. Stretching out her supple, delicate
form, whose silken feathers of dull green here and there assumed a pinky
tinge in the sunlight, she took hold of the fig with her claws, then
ripped it open with her beak. But when she had raked it she ate but
little, and let all the rest fall upon the floor. Still grave and
impassible, the Cardinal looked at her and waited. Quite three minutes
went by, and then feeling reassured, he began to scratch the bird's poll,
whilst she, taking pleasure in the caress, turned her neck and fixed her
bright ruby eye upon her master. But all at once she sank back without
even a flap of the wings, and fell like a bullet. She was dead, killed as
by a thunderbolt.

Boccanera made but a gesture, raising both hands to heaven as if in
horror at what he now knew. Great God! such a terrible crime, and su