ld learn
it, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me.... Why
it's even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears and
they won't miss me the next time. Ah! it's all over, I'm as good as dead;
this house which I thought so safe will be my tomb."

Pierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverish
brain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wrecked
by the anguish of persecution mania. "But you must run away in that
case!" he said. "Don't stop here; come to France."

Don Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. "Run away,
why? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, they
would be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded by
them! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if his
Eminence can no longer defend me." With an expression of ardent entreaty
in which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyes
to the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent in
his cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmed
him with increased intensity of fever. "Leave me, I beg you, leave me,"
he gasped. "Don't make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If he
should come back and see us and hear me speak.... Oh! I'll never say
anything again. I'll tie up my tongue, I'll cut it off. Leave me, you are
killing me, I tell you, he'll be coming back and that will mean my death.
Go away, oh! for mercy's sake, go away!"

Thereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his face
against it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolved
to leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet more
serious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him.

On returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himself
amidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; without
cessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the two
dear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume of
the fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles,
Pierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was the
last of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whose
only sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion by
whom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he and
Donna Serafina h