There was a hare, trapped on the hillside, and stewed
in Malmsey, of a flavour so delicate that Gonzaga was regretting him his
heavy indulgence in the ortolans; there was trout, fresh caught in the
stream below, and a wondrous pasty that turned liquid in the mouth. To
wash down these good things there was stout red wine of Puglia and more
delicate Malvasia, for in his provisioning of the fortress Gonzaga had
contrived that, at least, they should not go thirsty.
"For a garrison awaiting siege you fare mighty well at Roccaleone," was
Francesco's comment on that excellent repast.
It was the fool who answered him. He sat out of sight upon the floor,
hunched against the chair of one of Valentina's ladies, who now and again
would toss him down a morsel from her plate, much as she might have
treated a favourite hound.
"You have the friar to thank for it," said he, in a muffled voice, for
his mouth was crammed with pasty. "Let me be damned when I die, if I
make him not my confessor. The man who can so minister to bodies should
deal amazingly well with souls. Fra Domenico, you shall confess me after
sunset."
"You need me not," answered the monk, in disdainful wrath. "There is a
beatitude for such as you--'Blessed are the poor in spirit.'"
"And is there no curse for such as you?" flashed back the fool. "Does it
say nowhere--'Damned are the gross of flesh, the fat and rotund gluttons
who fashion themselves a god of their own bellies'?"
With his sandalled foot the friar caught the fool a surreptitious kick.
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