"Another warning!" continued the Piccinino, still examining the wallet. "The wretch! he proposed to have the gallant champion arrested who brought him into relation with the Piccinino! This is worth saving. Malacarne will see that he did well not to trust this hound's promises, and that he would have been well punished for not reporting to his chief. "I am surprised to find nothing against your father, Mila. Ah! yes, here it is! The signor abbé's measures were all taken to strike his great blow. This evening Pier-Angelo Lavoratori and--Fra Angelo too!--Ah! you reckoned without your host, my friend! You did not know that the Piccinino will never allow a finger to be laid on that shaven head! How ill-informed you were! Why, Mila, this man, whom people look upon as a monster of iniquity, is nothing but an idiot, upon my word!" "Of what did he accuse my father and my uncle?" "Of conspiring--always the same refrain; it is so worn out! There is one thing that surprises me, and that is that the police continue to pay any attention to this venerable nonsense. The police are as stupid as the people who set them on." "Give me that, give me that, and I will burn it with right good will!" cried Mila. "Here's another! Who is--Antonio Magnani?" Mila did not answer. She put out her hand so eagerly to seize and burn this last denunciation, that the Piccinino turned and saw that her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flush. "I understand," he said, giving her the paper. "But he ought to have forwarded this denunciation before venturing to pay court to you. Always too late, always beside the mark, poor man!" He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them. But suddenly he started and exclaimed: "Can it be? This in his hands? Good! I did not believe you capable of making this capture. Excuse me, my dear abbé," he continued, putting in his pocket a paper much more bulky than the others, with an ironical bow to the miserable wretch lying at his feet, his mouth half-open and his eye glassy and lifeless. "I honor you with my esteem to a certain point. Really, I did not believe you capable of it!" Ninfo's eyes seemed to rekindle. He tried to move, and there was a sort of rattle in his throat. "Ah! have we reached that stage?" said the Piccinino, putting the mouth of the decanter of narcotized wine to his lips. "Did that wake you up? You set more store by that than by the fair Mila, eh? In that case, you should have let love-making go, and should not have come here instead of attending to your business! Sleep, I pray you, your excellency, for if you understand what is going on, you will have to die!" The abbé fell back upon the floor; his vitreous stare remained fastened like that of a dead man on the Piccinino's ironical face. "He needs rest," said the latter to Mila, with a cruel smile; "let us not disturb him any more."