In the same street, and opposite Manlio's house, was another studio,
occupied by an artist, named Attilio, already of some celebrity,
although he had only attained his twentieth year. In it he worked the
greater part of the day; but, studious as he was, he found himself
unable to refrain from glancing lovingly, from time to time, at the
window on the first floor, where Clelia was generally occupied with
her needle, seated by her mother's side. Without her knowledge--almost
without his own--she had become for him the star of his sky, the
loveliest among the beauties of Rome--his hope, his life, his all.
Now, Attilio had watched with a penetrating eye the manner in which the
emissary of the Cardinal had come and gone. He saw him looking doubtful
and irresolute, and, with the quick instincts of love, a suspicion
of the truth entered his mind; a terrible fear for the safety of his
beloved took possession of him. When Gianni quitted Manlio's house,
Attilio stole forth, following cautiously in his footsteps, but stopping
now and then to elude observation by gazing at the curiosities in the
shop-windows, or at the monuments which one encounters at every turn in
the Eternal City. He clutched involuntarily, now and then, at the dagger
carefully concealed in his breast, especially when he saw Gianni enter a
house, and heard him bargain for the use of a room.
Not until Gianni reached the magnificent Palazzo Corsini, where his
employer lived, and had disappeared therein from sight, did Attilio turn
aside.
"Then it is Cardinal Procopio," muttered he to himself; "Procopio, the
Pope's favorite--the vilest and most licentious of the evil band of
Church Princes!"--and he continued his gloomy reflections without
heeding whither his steps went.