DOCTOR (_drily_). All the more reason, Bishop, for you to set to work at once with your miracle. You have my full permission—_plena auctoritas_—to begin. BISHOP (_with a glance at the bed_). After all, Beppo is Monseigneur’s brother. You knew that, Doctor? DOCTOR. Doubtless. What of it? BISHOP. Beppo and he are of precisely the same age. They are not unlike—at a distance. And at a distance, for some few years, it will be that the people will always see him. DOCTOR (_scoffs_). You don’t call that a miracle? To substitute one boy for the other? BISHOP (_gently_). Not if it succeeds? DOCTOR. Bishop! And Beppo? What will the people think has become of Beppo? BISHOP. Only that he has run away again somewhere, and got lost. DOCTOR. Lost! BISHOP. Why, who is there ever gives him a moment’s thought here? Is he not a gipsy—a vagabond? DOCTOR. And you propose to place him—in a palace? BISHOP (_whispers_). ’Ssh! Monseigneur is waking. (_Goes to the bed and draws the curtains._) But how is this, Doctor? The boy is not undressed? DOCTOR. He refused. He said that if he had to die he would die as his father did, in his clothes. BISHOP. Brave lad! (_So he seats himself on the edge of the bed, outside of which the little MONSEIGNEUR lies, fully dressed, propped up by pillows. And after a while, as the Bishop leans forward and gently places his large peasant’s hand on the poor child’s small and scorching palm, MONSEIGNEUR turns towards him, feebly and languidly, and looks at him with wide-open, frightened eyes. Soothingly._) Well, Monseigneur? And how are we? MONSEIGNEUR (_murmurs_). Bishop of Langres! Tell me—am I really going to die? BISHOP (_gently_). To die! After all, what is it to die? It is only to go from one room to another. And to another, better! MONSEIGNEUR (_fretfully_). I would rather stay here. Here are all my friends, and my soldiers, and my new cannon. Besides, to die in spring! So early in the year, when there is so much to do; when my people want me. (_Raising himself slightly._) Where is Beppo? BISHOP. He will be here directly. He is only being washed. MONSEIGNEUR (_smiles faintly_). Poor Beppo! That is not one of his favourite amusements. BISHOP. You are fond of Beppo? Is it not so, Monseigneur? MONSEIGNEUR. Very fond. BISHOP. You would like to do something for him? How shall I say? Assure his future? (_On MONSEIGNEUR’S silence._) You understand what I mean, by assuring Beppo’s future? MONSEIGNEUR. Of course! It means seeing that he has always somewhere to sleep, that he does not go so often hungry, and, in the winter, fireless; that he keeps himself clean. The difficulty will be to make him accept. (_Smiles._) He is such a vagabond. BISHOP. Hitherto, no one has shown him any care. MONSEIGNEUR. And yet—he is my brother. BISHOP (_while the Doctor, who is listening, starts_). Monseigneur! You knew? But how? Since when?