He hoped it would vex the
envious magistrate into a fit of colic. He argued that the great man
himself, in the event of its coming to his ears, would not be otherwise
than gratified by a godly fable so strictly in keeping with his
character.
Don Francesco alone, the smiling terrestrial beast, the lover of wine
and women, held aloof from the entertainment, alleging a gastric
indisposition and doctor's orders. He did not see eye to eye with
Torquemada on matters such as these. Don Francesco disliked all
measures of violence, Camorra or freemasonry, Vatican or
Quirinal--disliked them so much that he would have hated them had he
been built, like the PARROCO, on hating lines. He was too unwieldy, too
fond of life, too indulgent towards himself and others to experience at
mention of Don Giustino's name anything but a certain feeling of
discomfort--a feeling which his acute intelligence, embedded under those
rolls of fat, enabled him to formulate with warmth and precision.
"I know quite well," he said to Torquemada, "that he calls himself a
good son of the Church.
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