women are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with
them, even religion: there's nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at
the buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some
decorum was observed, there wasn't too much gorging. But at one of the
Court balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and
everything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!"

To all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was
wrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the
Pope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange
and picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime
the footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,
broad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined
by the moonlight.

All at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious /bravura/ was
exhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed
and paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat
pocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:
"A legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and
that its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat not
the poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls."
The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany
Pierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the
Palazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within
another ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in
the world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.
Never would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.

But he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that