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 such a
fearful mistake, such an abominable trick of Destiny! No cry of grief
came from him, but the gloom upon his face grew black and fierce. Yet
there was a cry, a piercing cry from Benedetta, who like Pierre and Don
Vigilio had watched the Cardinal with an astonishment which had changed
into terror: "Poison! poison! Ah! Dario, my heart, my soul!"

But the Cardinal violently caught his niece by the wrist, whilst darting
a suspicious glance at the two petty priests, the secretary and the
foreigner, who were present: "Be quiet, be quiet!" said he.

She shook herself free, rebelling, frantic with rage and hatred: "Why
should I be quiet!" she cried. "It is Prada's work, I shall denounce him,
he shall die as well! I tell you it is Prada, I know it, for yesterday
Abbe Froment came back with him from Frascati in his carriage with that
priest Santobono and that basket of figs! Yes, yes, I have witnesses, it
is Prada, Prada!"