But there was one man within the gates of Rome who knew the whole on the Wednesday night. Cæsar Borgia went not to bed when he returned from his mother's entertainment; but, dismissing all his train to rest, he waited for news of the events which he was well aware were to happen. I might give a fanciful picture of the agitation of his mind--of the listening ear and the straining eye, and the pallid cheek, and the quivering lip--and it might have every appearance of verisimilitude; for at that moment a brother was being murdered by his order. But it was not so. He sat upon velvet cushions, playing with a small, silky-haired monkey. He seemed as thoughtless, careless, and sportive as the poor beast itself. For half an hour he amused himself thus. He teased it, he irritated it, and then he soothed it. Again he teased it, and at length the monkey bit him, when, seizing it by the legs, he dashed its head against the floor, and the poor beast lay dead at his feet. He washed the blood from his hand with a handkerchief, and stood gazing at the dead brute with a face that betokened no grief or regret. At length he kicked the body into a corner, murmuring, "People must not bite me." People! Did he think that monkey was his brother? The only time when he showed some degree of agitation was when more than an hour and a half had elapsed since his return, and yet no tidings arrived. "Can they have failed?" he said, in a low voice; "can they have failed? Oh no, impossible!" and, sitting down again--for he had risen while the momentary fear crossed his mind--he took up a book and read some love songs of that day. Nearly another hour passed, and then a step was heard upon the staircase. The next instant a friar entered the room, and silently closed the door behind him. "It is done your Eminence," said the man, approaching Borgia, and speaking low and quietly. "What have you done with the body?" asked the cardinal. "It is at the bottom of the Tiber," replied Mardocchi, "I am somewhat late, for we had to drag him into Michelotto's house, near St. Jerome's, and we did not like to carry him to the river bank as long as a single soul could be seen moving in the streets." "Right--right," said Cæsar Borgia! "that might have been ruinous." "Not an eye saw," said Mardocchi, "though he fought for a minute or two; for Michelotto missed his first blow, and it took nine wounds to dispatch him. Some one must have given him three. I only gave him two, but they were good ones. One was between the throat and the breast-bone; the other, which was the best, was in the middle of the left side; that brought him down, and he never moved or spoke after that." "You are a good and faithful fellow," replied Borgia, "and have bound you to me for ever. You shall take away with you to-night the ducats I promised yourself and your companions; but that ring is for yourself, and engages you in my particular service."