The usher returned immediately, and told Benedetto to wait.
A quarter of an hour passed. Benedetto, shivering, his heart in a
tumult, his head on fire, excited and exhausted by fever, had once
more sunk upon his chair, while the most disconnected thoughts whirled
through his brain. May God forgive this man! Forgive them all! What joy
if the Pontiff should forbid the condemnation of Selva! How does the
person who may not write to me know? And now, why are they keeping me
waiting? What more can they want with me? Oh! what if with this fever I
should no longer be master of my thoughts or of my words? How terrible!
My God, my God, do not permit that! But what horrible baseness there is
in the world, what shameful, hidden fornication between these people
of the Church and of the State, who hate each other, who despise each
other! Why, why dost Thou permit it, Lord? Still no one comes! This
fever! My God, my God! let me remain master of my thoughts, of my words.
God of Truth! Thy servant is in the hands of his conspiring enemies:
give him strength to glorify Thee, even in the burning fire! Those two
persons are thinking of me now.
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