Colignon sits next to Bellarmine and takes her hands affectionately. The French, without disengage the hands of his friend, speaks with his usual profusion. Bellarmine listening, with his customary silence smiling.

– What is that?-Colignon questions, requested by unusual stir and excitement that has been moved from the old, at the foot of the house. Bellarmine did not even turn his head to look. Nothing inspires curiosity. Spend some time.

Lucidia sister approaches the usual corner where is Bellarmine, and gives a note blue-green, folded. It is a telegram. Bellarmine, with a gesture of resignation and indifference, opens it and reads it. But, just read it, it becomes white. A tear beats on the edge of your eyelashes. He runs a hand across his forehead.

– Dream? Am I dreaming? I, am I? I charged the belligerents, the Inquisition, the put and take off of the diners. Resurrexit. Alleluia.

Lucidia sister had never heard the case, or almost any other way, the taciturn Bellarmine. Think suddenly gone mad. Colignon arms raised to heaven in an attitude of triumph and thanksgiving.