THE TURQUOISE CUP


The Cardinal Archbishop sat on his shaded balcony, his well-kept hands
clasped upon his breast, his feet stretched out so straight before him
that the pigeon, perched on the rail of the balcony, might have seen
fully six inches of scarlet silk stocking.

The cardinal was a small man, but very neatly made. His hair was as
white as spun glass. Perhaps he was sixty; perhaps he was seventy;
perhaps he was fifty. His red biretta lay upon a near-by chair. His head
bore no tonsure. The razor of the barber and the scythe of Time had
passed him by. There was that faint tinge upon his cheeks that comes to
those who, having once had black beards, shave twice daily. His features
were clearly cut. His skin would have been pallid had it not been olive.
A rebellious lock of hair curved upon his forehead. He resembled the
first Napoleon, before the latter became famous and fat.

The pigeon's mate came floating through the blue sky that silhouetted
the trees in the garden. She made a pretence of alighting upon the
balcony railing, sheered off, coquetted among the treetops, came back
again, retreated so far that she was merely a white speck against the
blue vault, and then, true to her sex, having proved her liberty only to
tire of it, with a flight so swift that the eye could scarcely follow
her, she came back again and rested upon the farther end of the balcony,
where she immediately began to preen herself and to affect an air of
nonchalance and virtue.

Her mate lazily opened one eye, which regarded her for a moment, and
then closed with a wink.