Flinging out of the shop, Fleurissoire spat with disgust, tore off the slimy plaster and, pressing his pimple between two fingers, made it bleed as much as he could. Then, having wetted his handkerchief with saliva--his own this time--he rubbed the place. Then, looking at his watch, he was seized with panic, rushed up the street at a run, and arrived in front of the Cardinal’s door, perspiring, panting, bleeding, red in the face, and a quarter of an hour late. VI Protos welcomed him with a finger on his lips. “As long as the servants are there, nothing must be said to arouse suspicion. They all speak French. Not a word--not a sign to betray us! Don’t go plastering him with ‘Cardinals,’ whatever you do. Your host is Ciro Bardolotti, the chaplain. As for me, I’m not ‘Father Cave’ but plain Cave. Understand?” And abruptly changing his tone and smacking him on the shoulder, he explained in a loud voice: “Here he is, by Jove! It’s Amédée! Well, old man, you’ve been a fine time over your shave! In another moment or two, per _Baccho_, we should have sat down without you. The turkey that turneth on the spit beginneth to glow like the setting sun!” Then, in a whisper: “Ah, my dear sir, how painful it is to play a part! My heart is wrung....” Then in a loud voice: “What do I see? A cut? Thou bleedest, my lad. Run, Dorino, to the barn and fetch a cobweb--a sovereign remedy for wounds....” Thus clowning it, he pushed Fleurissoire across the lobby, towards a terrace garden, where a table lay spread under a trellis of vine. “My dear Bardolotti, allow me to introduce my cousin, Monsieur de la Fleurissoire. He’s a devil of a fellow, as I told you.” “I bid you welcome, sir guest,” said Bardolotti with a flourish, but without rising from the arm-chair in which he was sitting; then, pointing to his bare feet, which were plunged in a tub of clear water: “These pedal ablutions improve my appetite and draw the blood from my head.” He was a funny little roundabout man, whose smooth face gave no indication of age or sex. He was dressed in alpaca; there was nothing about him to denote a high dignitary; one would have had to be exceedingly perspicacious, or else in the secret--like Fleurissoire--to have discovered a discreet touch of cardinalesque unction beneath the joviality of his manners. He was leaning sideways on the table, fanning himself languidly with a kind of cocked hat made out of a sheet of newspaper. “Er ... er ... highly flattered ... er ... er ... what a charming garden!” stuttered Fleurissoire, finding speech and silence equally embarrassing. “Soaked enough!” cried the Cardinal. “Hullo, someone! Take away this tub! Assunta!”