He spoke the last words quietly and calmly into the girl’s ear, clearly enough for Balbi to hear them, too.
Then he stood up and raised both arms high into the air before putting the girl down as indifferently as he might an inanimate object. He looked about him absentmindedly, took the rapier from the table, and stuck it in his belt.
“Now make a clean copy!” he ordered Balbi.
He went over to the window, opened the blinds, and bellowed into the faint glimmering light, his voice hard and commanding: “Bring the horses!”
He wrapped the wings of his cloak about his shoulders and strode through the door. His steps echoed in the stairwell. The yard was stirring below: horses neighed, bottles clinked, and the wheels of the coach were creaking. The girl, still carrying the shards of glass in her gathered apron, took one or two slow steps and then scuttled out of the room, down the stairs, after the departing figure, as if she had understood something, as if something had occurred to her. Now only the friar remained in the room. He wrote slowly and with great care, frowning and pursing his lips, and spelling out the end of the message letter by letter: “I am y-o-u-r-s a-l-o-n-e, for e-v-e-r!”… Then he threw the quill away, leaned back in the armchair, admired his workmanship, and, stomach shaking, fell to loud, full-bellied laughter.