The friar cursed the fool roundly, as was his wont upon every occasion,
for he was none so holy that he disdained the milder forms of objurgatory
oaths. But Peppe for once had no vicious answer ready, a matter that led
the Dominican to ask him was he ill.
Never heeding him, the fool unfolded and smoothed the crumpled paper in a
corner by the fire. He read it and whistled, then stuffed it into the
bosom of his absurd tunic.
"What ails you?" quoth the friar. "What have you there?"
"A recipe for a dish of friar's brains. A most rare delicacy, and
rendered costly by virtue of the scarcity of the ingredients." And with
that answer Peppe was gone, leaving the monk with an ugly look in his
eyes, and an unuttered imprecation on his tongue.
Straight to the Count of Aquila went the fool with his letter. Francesco
read it, and questioned him closely as to what he knew of the manner in
which it had come into Gonzaga's possession. For the rest, those lines,
far from causing him the uneasiness Peppe expected, seemed a source of
satisfaction and assurance to him.
"He offers a thousand gold florins," he muttered, "in addition to
Gonzaga's liberty and advancement. Why, then, I have said no more than
was true when I assured the men that Gian Maria was but idly threatening
us with bombardment. Keep this matter secret, Peppe."
"But you will watch Messer Gonzaga?" quoth the fool.
"Watch him? Why, where is the need? You do not imagine him so vile that
this offer could tempt him?"
Peppe looked up, his great, whimsical face screwed into an expression of
cunning doubt.
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